


The Significant Other

by J_Baillier



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Appendicitis, Autism Spectrum Disorder, Clueless John, Confessions, Doctor!John, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Marginally less clueless and possibly pining Sherlock, Medical Conditions, Medical H&C, Medical Procedures, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Nostalgic season 1 tentative Johnlock, POV John Watson, Pain, Panic, Sherlock Whump, Sickfic, Social!warrior!John, Surgery, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, borderline fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-01 08:45:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11482803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier
Summary: Fate gives Sherlock appendicitis and John an identity crisis.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I _finally_ put my nose to the grindstone, and whipped this thing up to a publication-worthy state. I know there have been a bunch of people really looking forward to this (as I have been informed through tumblr - thank you for the enthusiasm!). Astute readers might be tempted to point out that appendicitis has been done before in this fandom, to which I reply: _'Certainly, but it has not been done by J. Baillier.'_ Don't we all need something lighter as a side dish to all the 2007 angst?
> 
> This is dedicated to all past, present and future wicked ladies of The Coven. 
> 
> Betaed by ASilverGirl, who diligently prevented pants rockets from going off and helped me manage my cans of words. Or would that be worms? Anyawen provided vital and priceless commentary on an early version, and 7Percent kicked my arse like she always does when she isn't busy spanking it.
> 
> Timeline: during season 1. Posting schedule: about once a week.

### CHAPTER 1

**In which John gets to deduce things and Mycroft is invited to meddle. Sherlock would be unimpressed if he wasn't busy being in agony.**

 

* * *

  
  
"Yes?" Mycroft's tone is as courteous as one would expect, but a tint of annoyance betrays that he isn't pleased about having to abandon whatever meeting he had probably been attending when John had called.

"It's John," John says needlessly, since Sherlock's brother must easily recognise his tone.

"What can I do for you, Dr Watson? Or, should I rephrase that to the inevitable: _what is wrong_?"

It's a reasonable assumption that this is about Sherlock, because it's _always_ about Sherlock, and God forbid the man seek help himself when something is amiss.

John glances towards the sofa. "I need you to come here and pull rank on your idiot brother so that he'll go to A&E."

"Is he injured?" Mycroft asks, and John can hear the frown. Irritation has disappeared from Mycroft's tone, having now been replaced with urgency and concern.

"No. From what I've seen, which isn't much, since he won't let me anywhere near him, it's either appendicitis or a ruptured ovary." He raises his voice towards the end so that he's certain Sherlock will hear him. There's no reaction; not even a glare to signal being unimpressed at John's brand of humour.

There's a rustling at the end of the line, likely caused by Mycroft covering the receiver somewhere in the depths of the Parliament, where his assistant had told John he'd been when she answered his phone. She'd given him a landline number to reach him without any further questions, when John had mentioned he was calling about Sherlock. It had made him wonder how many calls like this Mycroft has received during his lifetime, and when exactly had he become the one to answer them instead of their parents.

Muffled conversation – containing some no doubt purposefully opaque orders – is carried out, before Mycroft returns his attention to John. "I shall be there within twenty minutes. Have you chosen a suitable hospital? If not, then may I suggest The Lyons?"

"That's a private one, isn't it? I'm sure the NHS can handle whatever this is."

"The NHS is well-equipped to handle most emergencies, yes, but they are dreadfully ill-equipped to deal with _him_. In order to spare _your_ blushes and both your nerves, I suggest we circumvent the full Accidents  & Emergencies experience offered by the public sector and have this is dealt with as quickly and efficiently as possible. I will see you soon," Mycroft says pointedly. Without waiting for any counter-arguments from John, the older Holmes ends the call.

John sighs, pockets his phone and turns to face the apparently monumental task that lies ahead. Frankly, he doubts Mycroft's arrival will make much of a difference to Sherlock's reticence, but judging by how the situation is progressing and the current state of John's bad shoulder, he's going to need reinforcements for dragging Sherlock off the sofa. Cold weather always gives his war wound an excuse to throb and, to add insult to injury, last week he'd tackled a suspect pointing a gun at Sherlock, landing shoulder-first onto the floor.

He calls out Sherlock's name, and receives a tight-lipped, non-committal hum in response. He's breathing in the shallow pattern patients adopt when in severe pain. John quickly snuffs  a pang of intense worry edged with panic – he'll have back-up soon, and they don't even know what they're dealing with yet. Still, his instincts and his medical training have led to plenty of theories, all of them worrying. He wouldn't be much of a surgeon if he couldn't recognise the potential signs of an acute abdominal disaster complete with peritoneal irritation.

As these things do, it had begun innocently enough. Sherlock had dithered getting up the stairs at the crime scene and had appeared rather distracted leaning over the body. Instead of sitting down on his haunches to take a closer look, he'd drifted around nervously on his feet as John did a cursory examination of the cut-in-half cricket player. No deductions had come forth, except for a remark that it was a homicide.

"Well, I can see _that_ ," Lestrade had chuckled. "People don't tend to cut themselves in half."

John had stuck to commenting on the blood spatter pattern and the edges of the wounds pointing to the cutting-in-half having happened while the poor victim was still alive. It could well end up being the cause of death. He'd shuddered a bit, wondering what sort of an instrument could have possibly been used.

"Look for a butcher recently unemployed," Sherlock had said after a long pause. John had clambered back up to his feet and faced a blinking and pale detective.

"Right," Lestrade had said, with a little more glee than is called for when standing by someone recently gruesomely deceased, and headed down to the main floor of the sports arena.

"It's likely he knew the victim, since such a dramatic dismemberment together with a dump site that must have some symbolic significance stinks of veng---" sharp intake of breath, and then nothing. Sherlock had turned, slowly, heading towards the lifts.

John had jogged after him and caught up just as an empty lift arrived. They'd come up the stairs. What he'd begun to playfully think of as his Sherlock sensor began tingling. Or, perhaps not tingling. _Wailing_ was more like it. Sherlock never abandons a crime scene mid-ramble.

Time to jump through the hoops John was already familiar with when it came to surveying a Sherlock who was not feeling fell. "Are you alright?" John had asked, even though he hardly expected an honest, useful answer. It was simply the traditional manner in which to open such a dialogue.

"Of course," came the indignant retort while Sherlock repeatedly stabbed a lift button with a forefinger.

"What's next, then? Inventory of the butchers of London?" John suggested encouragingly. He had been rather enjoying his day so far: Sherlock hadn't made his regular racket the night before, the weather was lovely, and it wasn't every day you find people cut into two roughly equal-sized chunks. As gruesome as it was, John could sense this might make for a case with an intriguing motive.

"Lestrade can handle that. We might as well head home."

 _Ha!_ Sherlock does _not_ abandon a juicy dismemberment mid-crime scene visit. Something was going on.

They walked to the taxi rank outside the stadium. It was barely noon, so there was no queue. Sherlock was walking more slowly than usual and continued to appear distracted. In the bright March sunlight, his forehead looked clammy to John.

Time for stage two of the interrogation: the _bingo_. "The flu?" John suggests innocently while checking if he has enough cash for the cab. There had been in issue with his bank card a few days ago, and he hadn't received a new one yet. Well, when he says issue, he means an experiment containing a vat of acid and a coat hanger and a dead vole, but it's semantics, really.

The answer he gets is a scoff.

"Dodgy leftovers? Stomach flu?"

Glare.

"Have you… broken something while I wasn't looking?"

"I do sometimes wonder about your medical education. The abdominal cavity does not contain any breakable bones," Sherlock corrects him.

John stifles the urge to grin. As brilliant as Sherlock is, he tends to always fall for the trick he himself had told John about: people like to correct mistakes. When correcting John's "stupid" assumptions, Sherlock more often than not ended up providing John with vital clues as to what was going on when he didn't appear to feel well.

A cab is successfully hailed. Sherlock's relief is plainly visible when he slumps onto the back seat and closes his eyes. He looks a little green around the gills.

John decides to let Sherlock know the game is up. "You haven't eaten the palak paneer from last week, have you? The fluids from that broken container with the vole got in, I think. I've been meaning to clear it out."

"No. On a case, John, no eating."

They've only been on a case for two and a half hours, but another one had wrapped up only yesterday, and Sherlock had actually fallen asleep before they'd decided where to go for their customary wrap-up celebration dinner. The case John has decided to call _Bum Luck_ on the blog – a cannibal with a penchant for people's backsides – had gone on for a week. John doubts he'll ever want to eat pork buns again.

John shifts in his seat so that he's sideways and thus facing Sherlock. "At this point, all I want to know is whether I need to get worried or not."

"Of course you don't," Sherlock dismisses with a flick of his hand. This is the answer John had expected, of course, but it's not the words themselves he was interested in, it was the tone. Unlike when something benign and self-containing hit, Sherlock had now sounded ever so slightly unconvinced at his own statement. His eyes had drifted close, he was ashen grey, and John saw him curl his fingers into his coat as though seeking a distraction.

Twenty minutes later, John found himself increasingly impressed by Sherlock's self-control. The stairs up to their flat were obviously causing him agony, which Sherlock was doing his damnedest to hide, and succeeded for the most part.

What he couldn't hide, however, was the retching that began once Sherlock had hastily shed his coat and hurried to the bathroom.

John's inquiries through the door were met with an unsurprising command to _quit the bloody hovering_.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock drags himself to the sofa and stays there. John observes the hand that he's trying to stop creeping onto his stomach, the obvious fever in his glistening eyes and the fact that he usually lies with his legs straight across the sofa, but now he's trying not to stretch his abdomen by bending his knees.

This could still be just food poisoning, or some stomach flu bug that's been going around, but there are enough warning signs there to warrant a closer look.

John digs out a bucket from the cabinet under the sink and puts it next to the sofa. "I'm going to get my kit from upstairs and have a look at you."

Sherlock flicks a dismissive hand at him, not bothering to open his eyes. "Absolutely no need whatsoever."

John rocks on his feels, walks to the coat rack to fetch Sherlock's coat and drops it onto his shins. "Right. Then we leave for A&E in five minutes."

"Don't be ridiculous."

John is tempted to repeat a conversation he's already had with Sherlock several times over various subject matters, starting with _'why the bloody hell can't you ever be sensible about anything in your adult life_ '. He'd never received an answer until a stab wound in the leg that had threatened to exsanguinate Sherlock on the sitting room floor had seemed to even rattle Sherlock a bit.

Mycroft had weighed in on the subject once, when John had lamented his flatmate's irresponsible attitude towards illness and injury.

"One might describe it as his fight or flight -response kicking in. Even when he is aware of the necessity of medical intervention, he'll never co-operate. The medical establishment represents everything he abhors, from sensory experiences most unpleasant to being told what to do by someone with authority in a field where his own expertise falls short. It's not that Sherlock doesn't understand that some unpleasant things need to happen when he requires medical attention – he understands it well, yet he can't work around his fear any more than an arachnophobe can hold a tarantula. And, even if it were only a manner of dislike, for Sherlock, an infantile ' _don't want to'_ would always still trump necessity. One must work around his denial and his petulance. He can be most troublesome to handle and challenging to interpret, when it comes to being under the weather."

John had been tempted to say that a half-unconscious Sherlock with a gaping hole in his thigh hadn't been all that much of a challenge to manage, but judging by Mycroft's explanation the 'half-unconscious' bit was probably key.

"Your medical training is thus a highly valuable asset when it comes to preserving his life and his health. I must say it has been a relief to be relieved of some of this duty. For some reasons he listens to you."

It wasn't often that Mycroft praised anyone. He really does seem to trust John's judgement in these matters. Not that it helps. Sherlock might _listen_ to him, but he certainly doesn't heed John's advice.

Sherlock draws the coat up to cover himself up to his shoulders and shifts uncomfortably underneath this makeshift blanket.

"Could you at least tell me what's going on?" John pleads.

"Nothing that should concern you."

Sherlock usually dismisses John's worries by assuring him that it's nothing, that it will pass, so this non-sequitur is quite worrying. While he has not known Sherlock for all _that_ long, he has learned that when stonewalled like this, no amount of lecturing or reasoning is going to turn the tide. Time to call in the big guns.

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

"What happened to your ridiculous salad smoothie kick?" Sherlock asks Mycroft from behind gritted teeth. The older Holmes had let himself in while John had used the bathroom. Mycroft carries a brown paper bag presumably containing lunch in hand – a lunch uneaten because he'd hurried to get to Sherlock, John deduces. He's hungry himself, he must be, although the need has been dampened greatly by the fact that he's getting so worried about Sherlock.

"Not working for you?" Sherlock reiterates his barb while obviously trying to find a more comfortable position on the couch. He shoves off two frilly decorative pillows. John isn't even sure where they have come from, though the likeliest explanation is Mrs Hudson who had been tutting at the bachelor-like decorative choices of their flat recently. They aren't really conscious decorative choices, though. Sherlock simply spreads his stuff everywhere, and a lot of his stuff is _creepy_.

While waiting for Big Brother to show up, John had tried in vain to reason with Sherlock some more to let him have a look. Sherlock's counterargument had been that he could do his "doctor thing" perfectly well from across the room if he was so inclined.

During the early days of their friendship, John had once gently inquired Sherlock about this strange mind set regarding his body and its needs, receiving a shrug and a puff of some odd chemical from an Erlenmeyer flask to his face as an answer when he'd leant over the kitchen table to see Sherlock behind the paraphernalia he'd spread all over.

There is no discussing The Transport, as Sherlock calls it. He clearly wants John to adopt his own attitude to it – malignant neglect. Having learned that lesson quickly, John had realised that dealing with Sherlock was a bit like being in a New Age cult – mostly you could get by with blind obedience, but sometimes you had to take weird things at face value and improvise.

Sometimes, though, but _only_ sometimes when things were truly serious, cold hard logic prevailed when shoved down the man's throat.

Mycroft is good at doing that.

"Could I trouble you for some---" the man in question has raised his brows and turned towards John, who can easily deduce what is being requested. Mycroft is old-school that way, fond of social rituals to oil the wheels of human interaction. That approach is the polar opposite to Sherlock's.

Mycroft's arrival has seemed to perk Sherlock up, probably because he invariably gets irritated by Mycroft existing in the same space as him. "Tea, yes, John, please." He attempts to sit up on the sofa, but putting a strain on his abdominal muscles proves impossible, and he collapses onto his back, panting and grimacing in agony.

"No tea for you," John announces, "since that's starting to look more like appendicitis by the bloody minute."

"How could you possibly leap to such a conclusion?" Sherlock demands, squeezing his eyes shut and obviously trying to will away a considerable amount of pain.

"You were pressing down in the area above your right groin when you went up the stairs, you've got a fever, nausea and you can't even sit up because of the pain. If you'd let me do an exam, I might be able to offer some other diagnosis, one that might let you stay on that sofa and languish there, instead of going to an antiseptic-smelling emergency room."

To John's surprise, Sherlock doesn't argue back, just closes his eyes, so John decides he might as well try to press the issue. "Alright, mate?" he asks, pulls off the coat from on top of Sherlock, then gently lays his palm on Sherlock's knee, then sliding it slowly up towards his hip.

There's no reaction until Sherlock shoves his hands away the minute he starts pressing down on his lower stomach.

"Someone is going to have to do this today, so you can have your pick – me, or someone at an A&E."

"You'll drag me there anyway, and they'll no doubt repeat what you're about to do," Sherlock points out and flutters his eyelashes open, fingers still curled around John's wrist.

John sneaks his other hand onto the left side of Sherlock's lower abdomen and quickly presses down and releases with his fingertips. Even through the shirt, he can spot a tell-tale rebound contraction of the abdominal muscles. Sherlock grimaces and curses behind clenched teeth, his grip on John's wrist loosening.

 _Definite peritoneal irritation_. This is not a stomach flu or food poisoning. John stands up and turns to face Mycroft. "The Lyons Clinic, you said?"

Mycroft pointedly arranges the sandwich bag on the coffee table. Sherlock looks at it, coughs and grabs his bucket.

Mycroft averts his eyes as Sherlock tries to expel what little bile his stomach might still contain. "You know the drill, Brother Mine. A car is waiting, and I have made the necessary calls so that they'll be expecting you. John has made an assessment that this cannot be handled at home, especially since you won't allow him to do his job of a more thorough survey. Can you manage your coat?"

Sherlock squirms with pain after dropping the bucket back onto the floor. He hadn't been bringing up anything, simply dry heaving. The fact that he had even been willing to consider tea points to nausea not being constant, which might confirm John's idea that this is not a benign stomach flu.

John shoves an arm between the pillow doubling as an armrest and Sherlock's neck and begins dragging him upwards. Sherlock's fingers curl painfully into his good shoulder as he uses his arms to drag himself up. He mutters something against John's arm that sounds a whole lot like the F-word.

Sherlock never curses, except for special circumstances. A knife wound in his thigh had only warranted a _shit_ , so on the official Sherlockian pain scale of zero to _holy fucking hell_ , this is _bad_.

John drapes his coat on his shoulders before they begin the slow descent down the stairs. Instead of protesting that he isn't in need of help, Sherlock wordlessly snakes an arm across John's shoulders and grips the handrail so hard his knuckles turn white.

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

Ten minutes later, Sherlock curls up on his side on the lovely, warm backseat of the car.

John and Mycroft perch themselves on the opposite seat in the spacious vehicle, and John spreads Sherlock's coat on him as a makeshift blanket. After they'd managed to escort Sherlock down the stairs, John had run back up and to the bathroom to hastily pack a toothbrush and Sherlock's outrageously expensive shampoo, just in case.

He had wondered why Mycroft had not arranged an ambulance, but when he realises how close The Lyons actually is, it does make sense to use the car he'd arrived in. The sensory impact is lower, too. No bright lights, swaying shock absorbers or sirens. Yes, John gets it now.

John congratulates himself for involving Mycroft no later than this, since the level of pain Sherlock is in points to a fully developed ailment, but not yet a rupture, since there hadn't been a pause in the agony at any point. While grunting his way down the stairs, Sherlock had reluctantly revealed after John had asked about the sequence of events, that he had already been feeling out of sorts last night, but pain strong enough to distract him had only kicked in at the crime scene. It had begun very suddenly. Assuming John's diagnosis proves correct, that must've been when the inflamed appendix had begun leaning on the lining of the abdominal cavity.

John hasn't asked if Sherlock still has that very organ left. He's seen every inch of Sherlock in the nude due to various experiments, incidents, injuries and the man's lack of social inhibitions through the months they've lived together, and there are no surgical scars on his torso.

John has to admit he's curious to see the hospital. He has only worked at NHS units himself, apart from his army deployment. He knows that The Lyons is one of few fully equipped, private urgent care centres in London. Part of John still wants to protest the fact that many people don't have access to this sort of queue-jumping fanciness, but he is willing to admit that what they might be able to offer could well make a world of difference when it comes to Sherlock. Private room – no traumatised fellow patients. Fast transit through A&E – John suspects that such places might bring out the worst in Sherlock; he'd actually admitted once how much he hates shopping centres and an A&E must be infinitely worse. No waiting to be seen by a doctor will be a bonus, too.  Impatient when he’s well, a severely ill Sherlock is probably liable to unleash vitriol on anything that isn’t moving fast enough for him. A willingness from the staff to cater to his whims will also be a good thing, as will more lenient rules, likely allowing John to keep him company around the clock.

Still, even though John has never considered himself much of a social justice warrior, he has seen how lacking a healthcare system so many people in the world must make do with that the notion of places such as The Lyons bothers him a bit. People who patronise such places must be so acclimatised to wealth and luxury that they're not even aware of the chasm between them and the have-nots.

"Have you used this place before?" he asks Mycroft.

"On numerous occasions, yes. They should have all of Sherlock's pertinent information on file. The Lyons was opened a decade ago in renovated the premises of a former military hospital. The Victorian building was quite tastefully upgraded."

John drums his fingers on the small flat surface between the car door and the window. He doesn't care about architecture right now.

Sherlock is being worryingly quiet.

In his head, John goes through what he needs to make sure the hospital is aware of. Despite Mycroft's assurances, he feels compelled to ensure nothing goes wrong. He knows that Sherlock is allergic to sulphonamide antibiotics, and Mycroft had once mentioned that he has a tendency for an adverse reaction to lorazepam and diazepam, and that he's astoundingly resistant to many other sedatives. No regular medications have been prescribed for Sherlock. John wonders if Sherlock's records at the hospital include some of the diagnoses he'd been given as an adolescent – diagnoses John has never discussed with Sherlock, but of which he had been informed by Mycroft after they'd lived together three months. At that point, the man had declared he was convinced John was actually going to stay.

"Is that so surprising?" John had asked, arms crossed as he stood in Mycroft's frankly rather shady-looking office at Vauxhall Cross, where he'd been less-than-politely _invited_ for a chat. At least there had been tea and posh biscuits.

"Frankly, yes," Mycroft had said. "I must admit you have proven rather resistant to his more annoying traits, and rather tolerant of the rest of his quirks."

John had felt a strong urge to defend Sherlock – an impulse that had been appearing at regular intervals ever since they'd met, since most other people tended not to enjoy Sherlock's company and a great many of them made it known in a nasty manner. John had always hated bullies, and he couldn't fathom how others failed to see what seemed plain as day to him: Sherlock's abrasiveness was a defence tactic, and a lot of the abrasive stuff he perpetrated, he did because he didn't seem to know how else to behave.

John's _'a bit not good, Sherlock,'_ had become an important signal for the detective to back out of a situation. Sherlock's gaze would skip over to John after he'd said something that had left others in a dismayed, stunned silence that even Sherlock had realised something was amiss. After a quiet _'Not good_?' John would usually confirm it was so, and often took over from there, trying to steer the conversation to safer ground. The relief was often rather obvious on Sherlock's face when John saved him from a conversational cul-de-sac, or worse: upsetting people further, possible ending in him getting a black eye.

John has had to ask himself if what he does could be considered enableism. Is it letting Sherlock off the hook? Should he not do this? John still hasn't decided. Sherlock seems rather sensitive to others talking him down or assuming him incapable of something, which means that his seeking of assistance in social conduct is a huge sign of trust towards John. How could he decline to help, to leave Sherlock to his own devices? That would be rather cruel, wouldn't it? If Sherlock was to learn to manage these things himself, wouldn't he have done so before the age of thirty? What if he hadn't developed his more substantial talents as far as he had, if he'd wasted time focusing on things that were much harder for him to grasp?

John certainly wouldn't swap a more agreeable Sherlock for the real one. He rather likes the fact that Sherlock, in many ways, seems to defy the assumptions of others on how to behave and what arbitrary conventions of society's one ought to care about.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John disapproves of the lifestyles of the rich and famous, Mycroft delegates decision-making to army doctors and Sherlock talks chemistry when he isn't busy throwing up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this fandom. I love my readership. That's all I gotta say at this point.

 

 

They pull up on the kerb outside the main entrance of the hospital – an old, brown brick building, now adorned with modern, green-tinted glass signs announcing the name of The Lyons Clinic.

Sherlock manages to manoeuvre himself out of the car but then turns to lean, chest heaving and pale as a ghost, against the car door.

John exits the car out of the opposite side, almost gets run down by a cyclist, and then hurries to Sherlock's side. He knows better than to offer to get a wheelchair. Sherlock would rather chop off his own head than to submit to _that_ , excruciating pain or no excruciating pain.

After a moment, during which John hovers uselessly and Mycroft gives some instructions to his driver, Sherlock pushes himself back to his full height and faces John. He looks like he's about to fall asleep from exhaustion. John grabs his arm, clamps it between his own and his side, curls another around the small of Sherlock's back, and tugs him towards the entrance. Mycroft follows them wordlessly, looking rather worried when John steals a glance at him.

Once at the information desk, Mycroft has regained his mask of emotionless determination. John expects to be asked to fill out forms, to have a seat, but Mycroft simply tells the Urgent Care receptionist Sherlock's name and his National Insurance number, and a nurse soon materialises to escort them to a room off the main entrance hall.

Sherlock doesn't hesitate a second before practically collapsing onto the bed.

"One of our consultants will be right with you," the nurse informs them with an apologetic tone. John almost gapes – they've barely been in the building for _five minutes_ , and the general atmosphere is already pointing towards there being an apology as if there’d been some sort of an unforgivable delay.

"So, this is how the rich and the famous half get their health sorted?" John asks Mycroft, who raises his eyebrows in a manner that points to him pretending not having understood a word.

The nurse begins coaxing Sherlock out of his suit, and since John wants to be useful, he helps Sherlock roll to both sides without having to strain himself so that they can get his sleeves off. Sherlock always has a few choice words on the backless gowns on offer at NHS A&Es but this time, he says nothing, simply slumps back onto the bed once the whole ordeal is over and he's been wrestled into a similar garment. He barely flinches, when an IV is inserted by the nurse – John quietly points the man to look for a vein on the back of Sherlock's hand instead of the crooks of his elbows, where the moonscape of old injection sites makes finding one very difficult. For taking blood samples with a butterfly needle the veins there are still workable, but attempts to insert a cannula have usually ended with its advancement stopping after a mere centimetre due to scar tissue not visible from the surface.

A bag of Hartmann's is set to infuse and vitals are taken: heart rate a little on the high side, blood pressure slightly below normal, which _is_ normal for Sherlock. His fever has spiked up to 39.5 and a small infusion bottle of paracetamol is promptly delivered to the room.

Sherlock curls onto his side, away from the door.

"How's the pain?" John asks. He can see perfectly well the tight lines on Sherlock's face, the pinched-closed eyelids, the sheen of cold sweat on his forehead and the pallor, but he wants to be up to date on how communicative Sherlock is intending to be. When Sherlock feels he's being ignored, that others are talking over him, he tends to get abrasive.

Soon, a fortysomething female consultant in crisp scrubs and a short-sleeved white coat enters the room. The NHS had abandoned the white coats for hygiene reasons some time ago, but since these private hospitals probably cater to a lot of foreigners John wonders if they've stuck to using them because it's the expected thing.

John introduces himself and gives a brief explanation of the situation. Mycroft retreats to a comfortable-looking armchair off to the side.

Instead of a notebook and a stack of paper records, the consultant is carrying a tablet computer. A few brief flicks of her finger later, she walks around the bed and leans her palms on the railing. "Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock opens his eyes, squinting momentarily.

"I'm Dr Merit Hornbein. We met a year and a half ago. Patellar luxation, which you wished not to have surgical treatment for at that time, even though it was the third time? Has that bothered you since?"

"How is that relevant right now?" Sherlock asks sharply.

John is tempted to remark that yes, it definitely has bothered him. Sherlock dislocating his knee has happened once during their cohabitation, and after John had repositioned it at home, he had sternly refused to do anything else about it. If it's becoming habitual, it really ought to be looked at by an orthopaedist. Still, Sherlock is right – not relevant at the moment.

"Could you get him something for the pain?" John asks. "The paracetamol's hardly going to be enough."

"I was just about to ask," Dr Hornbein agrees.

"Get to it, then!" Sherlock commands and snaps his eyes shut again. His breathing seems to calm down when he does so. John suspects it might help him try to focus on something else than the pain.

The doctor taps a while on the tablet, then digs out a phone from her pocket. While she's waiting for it to connect, she notices John watching her. "Fully electronic records. The drug order has already been delivered to our pharmacist."

"You're aware that he shouldn't have---" Mycroft speaks up.

The consultant swiftly raises a hand to interrupt him. "Strong opiates, yes, we're aware, although depending on the situation there might be a need to consider those, at least post-operatively, but in that case, we'll carefully plan a wean-off. For now, it'll be Demerol and paracetamol."

"Useless," Sherlock mutters.

"We might as well get the labs done while we wait," Dr Hornbein says. "Unless you'd prefer a prilocaine cream first?" she directs her words to Sherlock.

John has never pegged Sherlock as being scared of needles or pain in general, so he's not surprised when Sherlock shakes his head.

"Just get on with it," Sherlock says brusquely, burying half his face on the pillow but extending his arm with the crook of his elbow upwards.

A nurse arrives with the Demerol and a basket of sample-taking supplies. "C-reactive protein, FBC, liver parameters, creatinine, and we'll need a urine sample. How soon do you think you could provide one?" she asks Sherlock, whose answer is a noncommittal grunt.

"We're doing a pilot study on a substance called U5-HIAA as a marker for the stage of suspected appendicitis. Since you said he's had symptoms from yesterday, it might tell us whether the inflammation has led to necrosis, risking a rupture," the doctor tells John.

"Urinary 5-hydroxylindoleacetic acid," Sherlock's pillow-muffled voice points out.

John breathes a sigh of relief – Sherlock can't be going into septic shock is he's spouting out bits of human biochemistry.

Sherlock keeps his eyes closed while the others in the room watch quietly as the thin tubing from the butterfly needle crawls full of blood.

John is forced to admit he doesn't miss the usual chaos of an A&E. Sherlock hadn't had to sit in the waiting room in pain and distress, waiting to be called while trying to block out the conversations and noise happening all around. The hospital has wall-to-wall carpeting practically everywhere which alters the soundscape significantly, and lights are modern and soft, and a press of the call button will most likely bring attention immediately, instead of within the next hour. They have privacy and actual walls instead of curtains and proper bedding without constantly rustling plastic underneath. John has noticed before that even when at home, Sherlock has a hard time focusing when he's sick; it's as though he can't block out the information from the surrounding world and the deductions spew out unfiltered, usually leading to an argument. Verbally venting his frustration is clearly his way of trying to control his anxiety.

Once the blood samples have been carted away, Dr Hornbein checks the clock on the wall. "I'll be back before three – the Demerol ought to have kicked in by then. While we wait for the results, we might as well get a CT done. Normally, I'd wait until I'd done a proper status, but since Dr Watson here has done a cursory exam already and said you were already positive for the Rowsing sign, I think taking this route could speed things up. If that's alright with you, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock flicks his wrist dismissively while glaring at Mycroft who's tapping away on a blackberry. "I don't _care_. Just _fix_ it," he demands, shifting his gaze to John as though he expects him to sort everything out within the next ten seconds.

Dr Hornbein leaves with a practised smile devoid of warmth.

Sherlock grabs the remote control for the bed and brings himself to a half-sitting position. He glances at the IV, then moves his scrutiny back to John. His eyes, normally piercingly sharp, appear shiny and cloudy. "How long do I need to stay here?"

John drags a chair next to the bed. "As I've explained to you a thousand times: before we can agree on a plan, there needs to be a diagnosis. And, since that can't be magicked out of thin air, we need to wait for the results. There'll be a CT, which won't hurt, and it's quick---"

"I'm perfectly aware of what a CT is." Sherlock presses the heels of his palms on his temples and presses for a moment. "Tired," he complains.

"It's the fever, it'll come down once the paracetamol kicks in," John assures him and grabs the woollen blanket at the foot of the bed, putting it on a side table. "You should try to have as little on as possible, you're still burning up."

"Thank you, _Doctor Obvious_."

"That would be _Captain_ _Obvious_ ," John snorts, "Literally."

Mycroft awards Sherlock a warning glance. "You'd do well not to upset your live-in doctor."

" _Upset_ him? He's not a Victorian maiden, Mycroft."

"Hurling abuse at medical professionals has never benefited you. You should know this from experience."

Sherlock opens his mouth, probably to argue further, but then reaches for a plastic bag he had been given earlier. He brings up a bit of bile, then collapses back onto the bed, a thin film of sweat gathered onto his forehead.

John remembers a conversation he'd once had with Sherlock on the subject two months earlier. He'd caught pneumonia, the A&E had been full of Friday night drunks, and the poor timid registrar assigned to his case had managed to rile him up completely. It was the first time he'd seen Sherlock properly ill. After Sherlock had reduced the poor girl to tears, John had lost his temper and asked him why the hell he couldn't just behave.

"Is there a contract to be signed at the door, saying that you'll only receive treatment if you fill in your end of the deal of being well-behaved, docile and completely co-operative? In my experience, those who raise the biggest racket are seen to the quickest, since they frighten the children and the staff don't want them around for any longer than is absolutely necessary. I'm tired, thoroughly fed up and trying to cough up my windpipe in chunks, so why am I supposed to _behave myself_? Will I get better treatment? Do they give the better antibiotics only to the _nice children_?" Before the A &E visit, he'd tried to get John to "sort it all out", to write him a prescription and forgo a proper exam to assess how badly off he was, and John had explained to him three times how the GMC very much frowned upon doctors treating friends and family members. He could sympathise with Sherlock's reticence to go to an emergency room – A&E was not a place anyone wanted to spend a Friday evening, and since Sherlock hardly acted all normal in any situation, it didn't surprise him that he'd act up about it all. This time, however, he finds it slightly puzzling that Sherlock would insist on sticking to denial when it must've been obvious even to him that something was wrong and he needed a doctor, preferably in a hospital.

In a way, Sherlock had been right, though, in some of his rants that night. Healthcare personnel did tend to slip into thinking of those who would not conform amicably to their assigned role as troublemakers and difficult patients. It was a lot to ask that lay people pocket their fears and their frustrations at the worst moments of their lives when they might be facing permanent illness or injury.

"Bored," Sherlock gripes.

"No, you're not," John contradicts, "you're in pain and uncomfortable and you want this sorted," he offers, only receiving a glare in reply.

A radiology technician walks in after a polite knock on the door. "CT for a Sherlock Holmes?" he asks, and Sherlock raises his bracelet-adorned wrist with an unimpressed expression to confirm his identity.

John is again astounded at the speed things are moving along. He really doesn't think it's fair that money buys this when those without it have to face the long queues and stretched-thin resources of public healthcare. He stifles his disapproval but decides to make an effort not to get used to this Shangri-La of medical care.

"Do you want me to come with you?" John asks when the technician begins carting Sherlock's bed out.

"I'm _quite_ sure I can manage being X-rayed without you," Sherlock replies icily.

John glances at Mycroft, who lowers the newspaper he has conjured from somewhere and raises his brows to John. "Go with him," he says, as though he hadn't heard a word of the exchange that had just taken place.

John does exactly that. He's quite convinced Sherlock can survive an exam that causes little additional discomfort and lasts less than five minutes, but he's not risking giving Sherlock even a marginal opportunity to pull some idiotic stunt like escaping through a window and attempting a self-administered appendectomy with one of Mrs Hudson's better spoons.

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-

The Demerol and the paracetamol kick in by the time they return from the radiology department, and Sherlock, thankfully, appears to fall asleep, matted curls framing his pale features. His slumber is, however, not restful: he tosses and turns, so John doubts he's succumbed very deep.

Dr Hornbein soon returns, which prompts Mycroft to abandon his seat and his laptop to join her and John by the large, flat computer screen on a side table. She pulls up the CT images, which Mycroft inspects with interest, although John is sceptical as to how much the man understands of what he's seeing. On the other hand, this _is_ Mycroft Holmes. Who knows, maybe he reads radiology textbooks in his spare time when he gets tired of learning three new languages a night.

"Elevated C-reactive protein around a hundred, leukocytes elevated, liver panel normal – you get the gist, of it, I'm sure," Hornbein says to John.

John nods. The fact that the lab work had all been done within forty-five minutes is astounding – like everything else about this place – but there are more important things right now to focus on.

Sherlock coughs and shifts on the bed. He must've been woken up by their conversation.

Dr Hornbein stabs the screen with a forefinger. "Our abdominal radiologist can't say with absolute certainty whether there are several fluid collections within the appendix or just one, but at least it doesn't appear to have ruptured." She turns to face Sherlock, stepping aside from in front of the screen. "We are discussing _you_ ," she says politely.

Sherlock slowly turns to his side in order to see the screen better. The Demerol looks to have dampened the worst of the pain, but twisting his torso obviously makes it spike yet again, and he grips the railing with enough force to turn his knuckles white.

"Uncomplicated cases can often be managed with intravenous antibiotics since studies have shown no benefit to early surgery in those cases. Would that be something you'd prefer, Mr Holmes?" she asks. "I'd say we could go either way, here – yours is most likely a case that could limit itself without an urgent appendectomy."

Mycroft steps back, regarding the emergency physician with a world-weary look. "Asking him if he _wants_ surgery is a waste of time."

John slips his palm onto Sherlock's hand that's gripping the side rail of the bed. He doesn't know why – and he only wonders about it after already having done so. "I assume the operation would invariably happen at some point in the future, even if the antibiotics managed the current issue?"

Dr Hornbein nods. "Current literature recommends an approach resembling that to cholecystectomy; hot phase surgery is to be avoided in mild, self-limiting cases."

"How long would this so-called ' _hot phase'_ last?" Mycroft asks, nodding his head towards Sherlock.

John's fingers curl around Sherlock's hand. His skin feels clammy and hot.

At a recent conference, a Japanese scientist had lectured on mirror neurones – brain cells that activate when a human sees someone experiencing something emotionally unpleasant or physically. Empathy neurones. Ever since the beginning of their strange friendship, John has felt oddly protective of Sherlock. He doesn't think there's a condescending undertone to it, nor does he feel in any way paternal towards the younger man – quite the contrary. At the start of their relationship, John had been the underdog, the one to be picked up and shoved back into the world, the one in need of help. Now, he's more than happy to return the favour. It's an honour, really, to be let in like this, to be allowed to be present at a time like this, when it comes to such a fiercely private person as Sherlock.

When ill, people want someone around them with whom they feel comfortable. Sometimes it's nice if that accompanying person is not family, but rather someone who sees the person you want to be _now_ , instead of their thoughts drifting back to some five-year old, snot-nosed and contrary version of you. It's a different dynamic.

Illness breaches boundaries. Things that normally feel mortifying to share with others – bodily functions, hanging around in ratty old clothes reeking of sweat, hair looking like it would after shoving fingers into an electric socket. There is nothing new about witnessing friends in such a state to John, who had shared a dorm room at college, then lived in close quarters with his fellow soldiers in the army. On the other hand, judging by what he'd gleaned from Mycroft's occasional anecdotes, Sherlock had never lived with anyone else than their parents. He'd even had a private room at university. Thus the process of breaking such boundaries, of having to accept someone outside his own family seeing him like this, must be a new thing for him. Yet, he seems to have accepted John into such a role almost instantly.

Maybe it was the fact that John had saved his life. Maybe Sherlock trusted him because of that.

John's thoughts return to the pneumonia. There had been a knock on his bedroom door late that evening. Sherlock had been standing, shivering on the upstairs landing when he'd gone to open it. He had been gripping the bannister, swaying on his feet, his fever close to forty degrees Celsius. He had only been wearing pants and the throw from the sitting room which he had wrapped around his shoulders. "I don't feel well, John," he'd said quietly, as though asking for permission to bother a doctor with his illness.

John had been awakened in the night hundreds of times by A&E nurses, by his housemates, by his fellow soldiers, to see to this sort of thing, but something about that moment had made him a little apprehensive, unsure how to behave. Something about it was fragile like glass – like he was being allowed to know a secret.

John had grabbed his bathrobe and wrapped it around Sherlock, adding the throw on top for good measure. After that came a thermometer, tea, paracetamol and a stern command get ready for an A&E visit. It had only been afterwards that John had realised Sherlock had not presented a clear request of what it was that he wanted John to do. It was as though simply having to accept he was ill up to a point of needing help – and maybe even wanting a bit of company – had thrown him, confused him, up to the point of having no idea what to do.

After they'd returned from A&E in the early hours of the morning, John had spent that night in Sherlock's bed, on top of the covers on the opposite side from where Sherlock tended to sleep, watching over him. He'd have half-expected it to be odd, after all those innuendoes and jokes made by others about the nature of their admittedly odd relationship, but somehow, there had been nothing problematic about it. None, at all. Maybe illness creates an alternate reality in which seeking and giving comfort cannot be laden with heavy meaning and complicated assumptions.

John feels like they are in that alternate reality again. He clears his throat and addresses Hornbein: "if it's a borderline case, and he's in this much pain, why not just go ahead with the surgery? He'll feel better quicker, won't he?"

"There's a higher risk of having to convert to an open surgery, laparotomy even," Hornbein explains, smiling politely. She steps closer to Sherlock. "I've spoken to the surgeon we've got covering the acute abdominal services today, and after reviewing your records and the CT he says the choice is yours."

Sherlock's eyes are locked on John and his expression is pleading. It's just that John has no idea if he's silently begging him to spare him of surgery, or simply to remove the burden of making the decision.

They study one another's expression for a moment, John raising his brows and Sherlock looking even more desperate for _something_.

"You want me to--- is that--" John stammers.

Mycroft comes to his rescue. "What would you recommend, Dr Watson? You are very familiar with the patient," he reminds John unnecessarily while carefully watching Dr Hornbein.

John meet's Sherlock's gaze. "You'd want this over and done with quickly. As does everyone else. And there's no other way to stop the pain as fast as possible---" John starts his sales pitch, trying to hang onto enough courage to hold the piercing gaze.

"Even if we assume it can be done laparoscopically – through minimally invasive surgery, that is – there is some level of pain to be expected afterwards. The carbon dioxide used in inflating the abdomen often causes shoulder pain in addition to the pain from the incisions," Hornbein interrupts.

John shoots her a disapproving glance. "All that's nothing to compare with _this_ , is it? And if he needs surgery at some point, anyway, then the point is moot."

"We use a local anaesthetic on the port wounds, and we could request a transverse abdominal nerve block as well, considering we'd want to avoid those opiates." She chuckles conspiratorially at Sherlock who looks unimpressed. "Yes, I'd say that would be the fastest way to lower the pain level," she then concedes.

"Fine," Sherlock says and splays the fingers of his left hand – the one not currently enveloped in John's – on his stomach in a useless gesture to kerb the pain.

John faces Hornbein. "That's the best you're going to get, consent-wise."

"You're his brother?" she asks Mycroft and checks something in the records she is now flipping through on her tablet computer again. "I guess we need your consent as well."

"That you have. Thank you, Doctor," Mycroft says pointedly.

John lets go of Sherlock's hand, confused. Why would they need Mycroft's….?

"I'll go talk to the surgeon, then," Hornbein concedes cheerfully, and walks out. The door clicking shut seems to shake John out of his reverie. He realises he's still effectively holding Sherlock's hand. He doesn't know if he should be more unsettled by the fact that he is, or by the fact that it doesn't seem unsettling at all – to either him or to Sherlock. Mycroft isn’t batting an eyelid, either. That might confirm this as a very normal, sensible, understandable gesture between two mates in a situation like this. Then again, John refuses to hold Mycroft Holmes up as any sort of a standard for normality.

John shoves his hands in his pockets and steps away from the bed. He looks at the wall clock and wonders how fast an OR will be made available assuming this place keeps up with its astonishing speed of operations.

"Now what?" Sherlock asks, irritated.

John doesn't know whether to think it's a positive sign that he's no longer being eerily quiet. Probably not, since an irritated Sherlock can become an unbearable Sherlock.

"Now, we wait," John tells him.

Sherlock lets out a disgusted grunt, rearranges his pillow and turns to face the opposite wall.

There are no books or magazines in the room – John is certain they'd bring him a selection if he asked since this ridiculous place is like a hotel staffed by surgeons. Sherlock probably doesn't want any, though, to bide his time while waiting – a glance at his vitals monitor points to pain probably keeping him occupied.

"Would you like to call Lestrade, hear what's going on with the case?" John suggests, ousting his phone from his jacket pocket. Some of Sherlock's grumpiness might well be due to falling ill mid-work.

"What's the _point_?" Sherlock asks. "I'll not be there to see it to the end, will I?"

"Fair enough."

John realises Mycroft's brown lunch bag is still on the table at 221B. Lord knows how long it's been since he's eaten, and John himself hasn't consumed anything after breakfast. It feels rude to suggest getting something to eat since Sherlock won't be able to have any. On the other hand, he'd probably decline anyway.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some _very_ luxurious private hospitals in the word, including some in London. While I've added some borderline preposterously indulgent ideas into the fictional one in this story, it's not all _that_ far from reality. My own views on the subject will be conveyed by John.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft reveals his secret pharmacological adventures, Sherlock gets more comfortable and John tries not to flip out like a-person-who-is-not-an-army-doctor would.

  
  
A surgeon walks in half an hour later to go through the procedure and to get Sherlock to sign a consent form. John is certain that Sherlock isn't even listening properly, and his signature is a haphazard scrawl.

John tries to be polite, to nod in the appropriate spots, deciding not to embarrass another medical professional by revealing that Sherlock knows more about medicine than is probably good for him and that Mycroft is a genius who can decipher pretty much anything.

The only thing Sherlock wants to know right now, is whether he's allowed more Demerol. John tries to find signs of nervousness in his demeanour, but his brief bout of irritability seems to have passed, and appears to have moved on to docile apprehension. Nausea seems to also have abated, at least temporarily.

John takes over a chair. Sherlock at least pretends to sleep. Mycroft reads The Financial Times. This peace and quiet lasts for approximately three minutes until John can't stand the mystery anymore. Something is _off_. He knows Sherlock well enough by now to look at him and think that this is not how he should be behaving. He's not sulking and he doesn't look like he's in that much pain anymore. He might be tired, yes, but the way he'd sounded when talking to the surgeon and his completely evaporated nervousness is strange.

"What is up with the two of you? He's behaving like a sensible person and you've stopped shouting at each other. What gives?" He almost asks: _what do you need me for, now?_ but bites his tongue. He doesn't want to make Sherlock believe he'd prefer not to keep his best friend company when said friend is ill.

"I was hoping you would be spared the knowledge, since I suspected you would not approve," Mycroft comments calmly. "Quinalbarbitone," he says and returns his attention to the Times as though he'd simply remarked on the weather.

"That's not even available in the UK," John comments and feels rather silly afterwards. For someone who works in intelligence, _anything_ is probably available, including a sedative now largely replaced by more modern ones with a broader dosing spectrum. "When?" John demands.

"You went to the loo before we went downstairs at home," Sherlock comments. His voice is slightly muffled by the pillow he has crushed between his cheek and his arm and the fact that he's facing away from John.

John grabs the call button. "They need to know about it. Not that a barbiturate probably has a lot of effects on the anaesthesia drugs except that he might now need less of them that usual, but they _need to know_ ," he chides.

Mycroft stands up. "I assure you, they already do. Discretion is guaranteed here. I told them on the phone that he'd be likely to have ingested a dose. As long as its origin or anyone else's involvement is not revealed, it's _fine_ ," John.

"This is how you help him cope, then? Drug him up and sit around reading the fucking paper?" _Is this how little you think of his coping skills?_ John is tempted to ask.

Mycroft is looking at him with the gaze of a man accustomed to manipulation, intimidation and provocation, and utterly immune to all of them.

"No, Dr Watson. _You're_ here, aren't you?"

John wants to protest that he's not a babysitter, not a nursemaid, not something convenient you can get delivered when your brother's poorly, not a paid assistant, but all those notions would carry the insinuation that Sherlock needs one.

Mycroft's eyes have turned steely – he's probably trying to get John to cease discussing this.

He does exactly that – for _now_ , but the seething anger doesn't disappear as easily as he'd like. This is Sherlock's _brother_ , for God's sake – shouldn't _he_ be the one taking care of the handholding and everything else that John is doing and feeling much less awkward about than he probably should? Has Mycroft done such things, in the past, or… does he not know _how_? John almost chuckles when the notion truly reveals itself to him - that Mycroft, in all his pomp and circumstance and meddling and organisational initiative – might actually be utterly useless when it comes to offering consolation to someone, when it comes to doing small things that come quite naturally to most people.

John doesn't need to ask why there is a need for such an exotic drug to keep Sherlock from bouncing off the walls. During the early days of cohabitation, Mycroft had delivered him a document listing Sherlock's allergies and the medications he has a paradoxical or otherwise unfavourable reaction to. During one of their cases, Sherlock had been kidnapped and dosed with one of them, and one instance of _Detective Jekyll and Mr Holmes_ was plenty enough for John to witness, thank you _._ As unique as Sherlock's brain is, the way his body deals with most psychopharmacologic drugs is possibly even more singular. During their A&E visit about the pneumonia, Sherlock had mostly focused on being obstinate and John had understood why Mycroft had seen fit to share all this information with him. That night, John had sorted out the signing in, including jotting down a list of things not to be given to Patient Holmes under any circumstances.

"Goddamned pair of boneheads, the two of you, honestly," John says.

Mycroft sniffs, snaps his paper back into submission and ignores him.

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-

John splashes his face with water. They've only been at the hospital for four hours, and yet it is no later than early evening. Granted, he hasn't eaten, but he shouldn't be feeling this exhausted. He can quite easily trail after Sherlock on cases for most of the day without trouble, as long as he manages to grab the occasional snack and a cup of coffee.

Through the bathroom door, he can hear Sherlock's terse answers to an anaesthetist's questions about when he has last eaten, whether he's prone to seasickness which might mean a risk for post-operative nausea, and if he's ever had an adverse reaction to anaesthesia.

Even though whatever Mycroft had made him take at the flat is likely still working, once his OR time had been announced, Sherlock had become visibly nervous.

John should be the calm one, probably because he's the only medical professional in their motley troupe, perfectly aware of how routine this all is. Yet even through his fatigue, he finds that Sherlock's jitters are becoming contagious – even Mycroft appears slightly on edge.

It must be because this is _Sherlock_ , of all people. Sherlock, who is his rock and his new life and who seemed to possess all the answers to questions John had never even thought to ask before they'd first met. They've been in tight spots before, but usually John had been able to do at least _something_ to render assistance, instead of watching idly by – or, they had worked together to solve the problem. Sherlock had freely offered him the opportunity to do the surgery, to which the answer had naturally been a resounding _no_. John doubts the leniency regarding rules that this place offers in exchange for piles of dough would not extend that far, and even if it did it would be much too stressful for him to be the one. He is honoured, though, that Sherlock would offer, because he had sounded serious.

To an outsider, Sherlock might appear to be behaving like he always does, but John knows how to read his tells – how he constantly fingers the bedding, complains about things nobody even notices, ignores the pain that's coming back and insisting he won't have any more Demerol because it dulls his senses. Before the schedule for the surgery had been announced, he had gingerly accepted every dose. He'd hid his phone – and his hands – under the duvet when he'd realised John had spotted them shaking slightly. Mycroft had confiscated said phone after it turned out Sherlock had been googling for _'appendectomy complication death_ '.

Mycroft had then asked for Sherlock's advice on some surveillance data from Lithuania and gently riled him up with chitchat about relatives' Easter cocktail parties where both Holmeses supposedly need to make an appearance.

When John re-enters the room from the en suite, the anaesthetist has left. They've got fifteen minutes of waiting time left.

John drags a chair next to the bed. "They'll probably let you eat a few hours after surgery if all goes well. Anything particular you'd like?" he hopes procuring whatever treat Sherlock might hanker for would give him something to do instead of pacing the hospital hallways.

Sherlock makes a face at such a suggestion of food.

John laughs. "Any questions I can sort out for you?"

"I've had people coming in and out asking me the same thing all afternoon. They should install revolving doors."

Sherlock sits up in bed, and John realises it doesn't seem to cause him any pain. Maybe he's had a new dose of Demerol while John wasn't looking? "Has it stopped? The pain, I mean?"

Sherlock smooths a crease on the sheet next to him. He's been doing that a lot. Nervous tic. "Thankfully, yes, even without pharmacological intervention. I tried to inform the anaesthetist, but that didn't seem to affect their plans."

"Sherlock, that's--- actually a bit _not_ good. Did it stop suddenly?"

"When I was turning onto my side, yes."

Mycroft has perked up, probably due to John's alarmed tone. "Dr Watson?" he asks.

"When?" John demands.

"No more than ten minutes ago."

"Good. Good, that's, yeah. I'm glad it wasn't earlier."

"You seem to think there's cause for concern? Dr Hornbein did mention this to possibly be a mild case," Mycroft cuts in.

"That, yeah, but it might also means that it's now ruptured. That means it's very, very good that you're headed to the OR in---" John steals another hasty glance at the wall clock, "five minutes."

Sherlock goes a bit pale. Mycroft stands up from the chair he has been dutifully occupying – and _being dull in_ , as Sherlock had remarked earlier.

John realises what he's just done. He's supposed to be a messenger of calm here, not a harbinger of doom. "Don't worry," he adds hastily, knowing how contradictory that statement is to his alarmed questions. "That just makes it a little more likely that they might have to convert to open surgery. Pain often gets worse sometime after the rupture, but we're not there yet, so you might just get to skip all that."

"I must say I find your bedside manner rather peculiar. Is that habitual, unduly worrying your patients?" Mycroft asks with a biting tone.

John pleads Sherlock with his eyes to say something in his defence. "Good bedside manner also includes giving the patient all necessary information for decision-making, and keeping them up to date on the associated risks," he tells Mycroft, then turns to Sherlock: "Besides, you _like_ honesty," he argues.

Sherlock nods. "And facts," he adds, lifts his chin slightly so that he's facing Mycroft defiantly.

There's a long-suffering sigh, but Mycroft does descend back into the chair he seems to have claimed as a new territory of the commonwealth.

"It's going to be fine," John tells Sherlock in a low voice. He doesn't even know why he'd prefer to keep their conversation private.

"What if it already is? What if it's self-limiting? What if it's just a mild case?" Sherlock fires off the questions in a tone pitched higher than he usually sounds. He then blinks, looking like he's surprised himself somehow. "What if your recommendation of surgery is a _mistake_?"

"The CT was pretty clear that it is appendicitis. You'd just have the surgery later anyway, and the risk that it may have ruptured definitely means that the choice is out of our hands. I really do think there's a risk you might be in quite a lot of pain soon."

John checks the time. Sherlock will be carted away any minute now. "Look, if you'd prefer, I could ask if they'd allow me at the observation area after the operation."

"They _will_ ," Mycroft says pointedly.

"I'd rather have you than _him_ ," Sherlock snarks petulantly, eye fixed on his brother, and John feels relieved. _He's not panicking if he can still gripe at Mycroft._

Before John has a chance to say anything more, two nurses from the OR unit enter to pick up their patient. One of them unceremoniously injects something into Sherlock's IV.

"What's that?" John asks.

"Additional insurance of compliance," Mycroft replies, "as agreed upon with Sherlock."

Sherlock fixes his gaze on the ceiling and says nothing more until his eyelids flutter closed due to what must have been a substantial dose of an intravenous sedative. John manages to pat him on the arm before he's wheeled out of reach. He bites his tongue from pleading the anaesthesia nurse to _please look after him_.

Of course, they will. They're professionals. This is routine stuff. John has done plenty of appendectomies during his surgical training. Not laparoscopic ones, though, but still. Perfectly routine.

Still, he can't help wondering what results Sherlock's internet search may have yielded. _Stop painting devils on the wall, Watson_.

"We have a waiting area in the surgical wing if you'd prefer that, or you can stay here. The Ward sister will show you the way if you ask her."

John glances at Mycroft. The thought of sharing the air in this room with Big Brother Holmes does not entice. He's going to be pacing and unable to focus on anything, so he could as well be that way at the surgical wing, where he'll at least be closer to Sherlock.

The doors click close after the bed has been wheeled away. John turns and swallows. "I'm not staying here."

"There's a selection of restaurants on the premises," Mycroft informs him.

John doesn't think he'd be able to eat a single bite, even though he'd been ravenous only thirty minutes prior and he doesn't quite understand the intensity for his reaction. Why does he feel as though a limb has been ripped off? If he's getting this symbiotically attached to Sherlock, he probably ought to be dating more.

It's just that he hasn't even been all that interested in dating lately. The occasional sex is nice, but a part of him has begun to thoroughly question if there is anyone else on this Earth who could match Sherlock in terms of interesting company. He never used to get bored on dates before, now he invariably does, when listening to what Sherlock would described as _normal, dull people_ and _their bourgeois, witless lives_.

John doesn't want a life like that. If he did, he'd have never gone to Afghanistan. He wants midnight chases on the streets of London, watching Sherlock do his caped crusader act on crime scenes, and post-case dinner and champagne at Angelo's. He wants what he already has, which is more than most people can say for themselves.

He doesn't want to _date_ Sherlock, _of course not_ , but he doesn't want to date anyone else, either. What the hell is happening to him? And why doesn't it bother him more?

-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-

Mycroft leads the way to a restaurant that wouldn't look out of place in any of London's more fashionable suburbs. John had expected the usual disappointing hospital cafeteria fare. Judging by everything else that has astounded him about The Lyons, he should have known better.

Mycroft treats him to a very late lunch. John selects a steak teriyaki burger, while his company opts for a lobster thermidor. There's even wine available, but they forgo that.

They eat quietly, until halfway through the meal John remembers something – maybe the delectable cappuccino he's making his way through is working in jogging his brain cells back into full swing. "Why did Dr Hornbein say she needed your consent as well?"

Mycroft taps crumbs off his lips with a linen napkin and gently shoves aside his leftovers. "Power of attorney."

"Because of the sedative?"

"No, this is a permanent measure. Or, at least as permanent as it needs to be."

It's not the strangest thing John has learned about Sherlock, but it's not far, either. "And he's _fine_ with it?" It doesn't seem like Sherlock to easily accept someone else having that much power over him.

"For much of his adult life, he's been classed as a vulnerable adult."

John's brain segues sideways. " _Him_?" The man who's usually smarter than everyone else in the room, combined. John does understand that intelligence does not always mean exemplary coping skills, but _still_. "But it's just, well, he's _Sherlock_."

Mycroft regards him amicably. "Yes, and when him being Sherlock interferes with keeping him alive and well, the power of attorney comes into play."

John racks his brain as to the legal issues associated. "Power of Attorney is legally not the same as someone being classed as vulnerable, is it?"

"Correct. The classification was finally rescinded after several years of lasting sobriety. It was still agreed that someone should keep an eye on things, and interfere when pertinent. After a stern conversation with the parental unit, he signed the Power of Attorney papers."

"Why you? Why not your parents?"

"It was Uncle Rudy at first, and that baton was then passed onto me. Not that he did a very good job of it - he was more preoccupied with his personal… pastimes." Disapproval sharpens Mycroft's glare. "Our parents have not spent any considerable amount of time in the UK after Sherlock left university. My mother runs a major research unit at Columbia University."

John frowns, still wondering what on Earth has made Sherlock so irrational beyond anyone being able to talk any sense into him when it comes to his health. He can be the most logical creature when he wants to, which often makes John forget about his difficulties in other areas of life. He can't help wondering what sorts of disasters Mycroft has been able to prevent throughout the years.

"It's just that…" John starts, since something in the big picture is still not slotting into place in his head and like Sherlock tends to say, he needs more data.

"Yes?" Mycroft asks, re-folding his jacket onto the hand rest of the chair.

"Why is this sort of thing always such a disaster, when he can manage other things just fine? He's got a driver's licence, which I assume entailed going through driving school, he got his passport renewed last year, he's a graduate chemist from Cambridge for Christ's sake. He can sort himself out. Usually."

"During your career, have patients who you would class as all-around functional, intelligent citizens always behaved in as sensible a manner as you would expect?"

John doesn't even have to really think about before shaking his head. Plenty of adults have thrown teary hissy fits over having broken bones or refused to even talk to healthcare workers due to being fearful or upset over their predicament. He has seen surgical patients attempting to make a run for it from the operating table and gravely injured soldiers calling desperately, disconsolately for a parent. When John himself had been shot, he probably hadn't kept his cool, either. Not at all. He doesn't remember all of it, due to the shock and the blood loss, but he's quite sure he'd be mortified if he saw how far from a seasoned army doctor he may have appeared at that time. It was perfectly understandable, and Mycroft's question was raising a very good point.

"Illness and pain can override our intellect, flood us with such distress that rational thought becomes impossible. When combined with deeply unpleasant past experiences and Sherlock's particular difficulties, I find it easy to understand why he'd rather take the pain and even the risk of severe harm over submitting himself to hospital care ever again."

It's easy for John to agree. He remembers venting his frustrations to nurses around the corner after trying to talk sense into patients who were beyond listening, and absolutely terrified.

He now feels slightly guilty over the cavalier attitude he has developed about cushioning Sherlock's interactions with the world – giving himself a halo and a proverbial pat on the back after dealing with what he'd described as _the sulking prat_ to Lestrade once.

"While developmental neuropsychiatric disorders were not unheard of at the time when we were children, not all medical or dental professionals were all that convinced they couldn't simply be weeded out with a little reality therapy and parental sternness. Sherlock was, unfortunately, subjected to such an approach. Combined with his sensory issues it is best, while perhaps not so public spirited, that his health issues are looked into somewhere with enough resources to take his peculiarities into account and where stressors are as few as possible." Mycroft checks his watch. "It's been an hour and twenty minutes. Perhaps we should make our way to the surgical unit."

According to Mycroft, John would have been allowed to be present even inside the OR. John had reasoned that as long as Sherlock managed the anaesthesia induction phase without a major incident, there would have been little point in him being present since Sherlock would be fast asleep. When Mycroft had briefly stepped out of the room to make some work calls, John had asked Sherlock what he'd prefer, and the answer had been that he'd been operated on before and that he hardly needed company for it. That, combined with the sedative he'd received before being rolled out had made John decide not to push the issue. In all honesty, he very much preferred not to have to watch his best friend being cut into with a scalpel.

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

Thirty minutes later, John is getting antsy. They're now in the pastel-coloured, comfortable waiting area for family members just outside the OR unit. It's dark and raining outside, and the LED-lit skylights look like a streaky kaleidoscope.

There's a television on, but the sound had been muted by Mycroft so that he could focus on whatever state secrets he's typing up on his work laptop. John had managed to whittle away five minutes by playing a game on his phone, but instead of providing a distraction it had been a constant reminder of Sherlock since he tended to ruin John's fun of solving the game's puzzles by instantly announcing the solution when he clapped eyes on the screen.

He stands up, stretches his arms backwards, hands joined together, but the crick in his neck and the tenseness in his bad shoulder refuse to abate. He takes idle steps across the hallway and back.

He can't help wondering how things had gone in the OR before the operation. Would Sherlock have been nervous? Scared? Downright panicking? _He's Sherlock bloody Holmes. He eats danger for breakfast_ , he tries telling himself, but he has hardly forgot his discussion with Mycroft. Illness isn't the only thing about Sherlock's body that seems to annoy, confuse and dismay the man, but its malfunctions certainly seem to be a complete mystery to him. Ask him for a complex explanation of some physiologic process and you will get it; make him draw the Krebs cycle and one will be delivered in flawless form. A lecture on the pharmacology of cyanide? Easy. It's just that the _practical_ part of owning a human body where all that happens to _him_ is clearly not anything Sherlock would list as a skill he possesses. He seems to ignore all such things until something goes wrong, and even then, his ability to compartmentalise and to focus on irrelevant details and on trying to pretend nothing is wrong is frightening. Never mind if he's trying to cough half a lung out or that his ankle is sprained at twice its normal size, it's always ' _never mind that, you idiots, the suspect is_ _getting away_!'.

All this brings back the issue of John's own motivations for not stepping away and letting Sherlock and Mycroft fix things. It's nice to be needed, of course, but what has happened today and many things that have happened before go above and beyond anything John has ever done for a mate, or what a normal friend would ever ask or assume of him. Even Mycroft seems to think he's always available, endlessly patient and willing to bend over backwards for his little brother, and it's all bloody true if John is honest with himself.

It can't be because of physician's compassion, is it? He's not doing this because Sherlock doesn't have anyone else, because he _does_ have someone. He has Mycroft, he has his parents, and even though he clearly doesn't realise it, he has inspired loyalty and friendship in others besides just John. He knows that Lestrade had done a lot for Sherlock after they'd met, helping him get off the streets and off his chosen drugs. John has learned that it's the reason why the DI and Mycroft know each other – they'd teamed up after Mycroft had begrudgingly accepted that solving crimes might be just the thing to motivate Sherlock to stay off the sauce.

Lestrade's attitude towards Sherlock is clearly paternal. John doesn't feel that way.

How _does_ he feel, then? The question makes him uncomfortable.

It can't be wrong to care about someone. It can't be wrong to want to help them. Still, the surge of protectiveness Sherlock brings out in him is strange in its intensity, and the tendency had been there even before he had learned that Sherlock isn't just… a bit odd, that there are diagnoses that can be used to describe that oddness. Even now, he doesn't find it difficult at all to put those things aside and just see a brilliant, self-sufficient man who is the most fun and interesting person John has ever known even though he can easily be a huge dick at times. Maybe John just happens to be exceptionally suited to withstanding his particular kind of insufferable.

"How long has it been?" he asks, even though he's sure that the surgery has not been ongoing worryingly long. After all, the operation might be short if they're in luck and the appendix hasn't ruptured, but the anaesthesia induction and the washing and draping and waking the patient up take surprisingly long.

Mostly, he's asking because he wants company, even if it's just Mycroft.

"An hour and fifty minutes," Mycroft informs him without consulting his most likely astronomically expensive wristwatch. Sherlock could probably name the maker and model without even looking at it.

John tries to make a time estimate. Fifteen minutes for the anaesthesia induction, probably about thirty for the washing and the draping and setting up the laparoscopy tower.  Forty minutes for the surgery if there isn't a need for extensive peritoneal lavage or converting to an open operation. Fifteen minutes to close up? Fifteen for preparations and administration of the transabdominal plane nerve block the anaesthetist had been explaining to Sherlock? Twenty minutes, tops, for emergence from anaesthesia with Sherlock's resistance to most drugs that act on the central nervous system.

If everything has gone routinely, it shouldn't be long, now----

John is startled out of his thoughts, when the double doors leading to the OR floor slide open, and a nurse wearing light green scrubs walks up to them.

Mycroft nearly drops his laptop when he abandons his seat and joins John in the middle of the hallway. There's no one else waiting for news in the area; come to think of it, the whole hospital has been empty all evening. Could it be because the prices are exorbitant, John wonders.

"Everything went fine. The appendix was ruptured, but there was no need to convert to an open procedure. You can see him in fifteen minutes," the nurse tells them in a cheerful tone.

John is half-relieved, half-annoyed that the surgeons have sent a nurse here to share the news. For a moment he even suspects something is amiss, but then realises that the fact that they haven't come personally means that there truly must be nothing complicated or worrisome to report.

John wonders if this is a sign that he already adapting to the ridiculous service in this place, demanding that his colleagues are at his constant beck and call?

"Thank you," John manages, relief suddenly draining him of strength. He slumps down to a chair, his formerly bad leg giving a twinge.

Mycroft packs away his papers and his laptop, and begin pulling on his coat on top of the jacket he has already donned.

"You're not leaving, are you?" John asks.

"My work here is done, since the major hurdle of getting him onto the operating table has been crossed. I will visit tomorrow, but for now I leave the aftercare to your capable hands, since you will be the one to supervise it at home later. He does so seem to prefer your company," he says in a slightly hollow tone.

"He doesn't hate you, you know," John feels obligated to say, "In case that's what you think."

Mycroft, who had been about to pick up his briefcase from the floor, pauses mid-reach and straightens his back to face John again. "Oh?" his tone is sceptical.

"Well, I don't really mean _hate_ , but you know, _not not like you_."

"I would never attempt to define our relationship in such simplistic terms."

"It's obvious that the _archenemy_ thing was a joke. Still, you'd have to be really important to be that, don't you?"

Mycroft's lip quirks upwards slightly. "I suppose." He gathers his things and glances towards the OR floor doors. "Goodnight, Dr Watson."

"John. I think that should be John. Under the circumstances."

"Would those circumstances be the events of today, or is this a general suggestion?"

"Whatever you want," John scoffs, realising Mycroft had not made a counter-offer of being on a first name basis. Then again, John has never deigned to call him Mister Holmes. If John did that, Sherlock would probably laugh his arse off.

"Then I will bid you goodnight again, John, and request that you look after him."

John gives him a tight-lipped smile. "He'll be up in no time to inconvenience you."

"I expect no less."

 

   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The enthusiasm with which this story has been received has blown me away. Rock on.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John indulges in a lot of semantics, both double and twin rooms are available, and Mycroft evacuates himself.

  
  
After the requisite fifteen minutes have passed, John isn't sure what to do – whether to press the doorbell next to the OR floor entrance, or to wait patiently. Just as he is considering walking back to the Urgent Care Unit to ask the receptionist, the doors slide open again and a smiling nurse in scrubs and a sweater greets him with a nod. She lingers in the doorway as if to beckon him closer. "Dr Watson?"

John wastes no time in crossing the distance from the waiting area. "Yeah."

"If you'd like to follow me? We were informed that you should be given access to the recovery area."

The woman's nametag announces that she's a _Nursing Supervisor._ Her crisp scrubs, the cardigan on top of them and the lack of an OR hat tell John she probably works in admin or oversees the post-anaesthesia recovery area.

John trails after her into the bowels of the unit. The OR floor appears slightly more dated than the rest of the hospital, probably having housed operating theatres for a long time. The technology is, however, state of the art, and unless John knew she was in a Victorian building he would never have believed so from the gleaming, unscratched tile surfaces and modern flooring made from what appears to be concrete tinted with stripes of some sort of metallic hue. It would not look out of place in a swanky hotel foyer.

John feels at home in such surgical settings the grittier, the better, because that meant the place had seen action. The day surgery centres and other non-emergency units he'd worked in as a trauma-surgical trainee before his overseas deployment had always been too neat, too orderly to his taste. He loved the buzz and chaos of army field hospitals, because those offered regular chances to test his problem-solving and prioritising skills in a setting that called for more creative out-of-the-box solutions than NHS rules back home would allow.

He is, indeed, intimately familiar with hospitals, but much less in the role of an observer or a family member. Neither of those terms seems to quite fit right now. What is _he_ to Sherlock? They've only known each other for a relatively short time, but Sherlock had seemed to give him a once-over and then allow him unprecedented access into his life.

During the pneumonia incident he had learned that he is now Sherlock's designated emergency contact, even though he's not even the one with Power of Attorney. John has a strange feeling of having been bestowed with a responsibility he has never ever asked for, yet he doesn't mind, not in the least.

He's not a relative. The word _'friend_ ' also seems to fall a bit short.

A significant other?

That would point to a sort of a relationship he shouldn't be interested in with Sherlock, yet the expression feels incredibly apt. What they are to one another is, in many ways…. undefinable in simplistic terms. He's here because he holds some importance to Sherlock, as acknowledged by him and accepted by Mycroft. He's here, because… he needs to be? Because he wants to be? Well, _obviously_ , as Sherlock would say.

Yes, he wants to be here, because he wants to be with Sherlock. Where would he be without the man? He had no idea what he was getting into when he said yes to sharing a flat. What he'd chosen that day was… so much more than he could ever have anticipated. Something significant and important. Something that dragged him out of his own head and into a world he hadn't realised was right at his feet.

He wants to be here, with Sherlock, because no matter what the situation, everyone else always pales in comparison.

The nurse leads him along a long corridor, off to both sides of which open the doors to eight operating rooms. Two of them are in use and inside one, the whole surgical team are wearing air-vented hoods – likely a joint replacement or something else orthopaedic, warranting strict measures of battling infection risk. In another theatre, drapes are being removed so John can't tell which sort of a surgery has taken place. It doesn't matter. He has more important things to think about.

At the end of a corridor opens a fan-shaped, large room with ten bays for hospital beds separated by non-movable plastic walls. Next to each bed space resides a computer station with a bar stool. Handover is taking place in one of the stalls – a portable monitor brought in with the patient is slotted into the side of a larger monitor, where its graphs soon appear.

"Our anaesthesia workstations all connect to a centralised computer system. No need to record vitals by hand – it all gets transmitted from the monitors straight into the electronic patient records. The same applies to data from fluid and medication infusors. We're rather proud of our system, even though acquiring it meant postponing some of the renovations for the unit," the nurse explains, removing her sweater.

John can now read the name Joy Harris from her nametag. It quickly rings a bell. "You wouldn't happen to be in any way related to a Gracie Harris?" John remembers his medical school classmate's mother being a nurse with a short first name.

She smiles sunnily. "That would be my middle daughter."

"We both went to Barts and The London," John remarks. Gracie is a bubbly, enthusiastic person who had become an internist expert of tropical diseases. She kept snakes and spiders as pets even during medical college, causing a couple of incidents when those pets had managed to escape their terrariums. John had sometimes consulted her from Afghanistan when a fellow soldier exhibited symptoms he couldn't easily narrow down, or someone got bitten or stung with something nasty. The Deathstalker scorpions plentiful in Kandahar had given their whole unit nightmares when camping out.

"I see," Nurse Harris says pleasantly and takes John to the opposite edge of the fan, at the base of which lies the nurses' station.

The lights above the rightmost bay have been dimmed, and it's occupied by a bed. Another nurse, a fortysomething man with a handsome beard, is sitting on the neighbouring bar stool, scrolling something on the computer.

"Mark, I've got Dr Watson for you," Nurse Harris calls out in a quiet voice.

John shakes the hand extended by the male nurse whose name tags says Mark Ingleson. He finds himself only mildly surprised that they're all aware of his identity.

"The surgeon put in a nerve block, and there was no need for an abdominal drain," Ingleson tells John, "the appendix was ruptured, so they lavaged the peritoneal cavity. The surgeon wants to keep him overnight because of the rupture, but tomorrow, if he feels up to it, we can refer him to our home-care service, through which he can get his IV antibiotics administered."

John nods. A hospital stay as short as possibly does sound good. At home, Sherlock will have more to entertain himself with, even if bed-bound. And the familiar surroundings of Baker Street must feel preferable to the sensory irritations of a hospital.

He'd assumed an anaesthetist would do the nerve block instead of the surgeon, but then again by using the laparoscopic equipment they could probably do the injection without ultrasound, utilising the camera port to make sure that the needle wouldn't pierce the peritoneum.

Ingleson fetches him a chair and asks if John would prefer him to stay or wait by the nurses' station. It's less than five metres away, so John gladly allows the man a break from Sherlock-sitting duty. Distracted momentarily by the introductions and the unfamiliar place, John now finally gets to shift his undivided attention to the bed. There lies Sherlock, still fast asleep and covered up to his chin with a luxuriously soft and fluffy-looking duvet. A soft hum betrays the presence of a disposable warmer blanket underneath it, which is being puffed up by the vent from a small machine that looks like a vacuum-cleaner. The head of the bed has been slightly raised, and oxygen prongs are in place, as is a small, round monitor patch electrode on Sherlock's temple.

John is slightly startled when the nurse appears beside him again a few minutes later, checking the readings on the monitor. The temperature slot shows a result in the normal range: fever has come down, then – or it might just be that Sherlock's body temperature had dropped during the surgery, which often happens.

Ingleson, telling John to call him 'Mark', by the way, turns off the air vent and gently peels off the forehead electrode.

John rises from his chair, steps closer and notices a strange row of markings across Sherlock's forehead. They look as though small, round things had been pressing on the skin. Mark grabs a tissue from a receptacle nearby and runs it across Sherlock's forehead. Noticing John's curiosity and shows him the electrode he'd removed. "Core temperature monitoring. Works surprisingly well according to studies, even though the electrode is superficial. No need for those annoying urinary catheter electrodes or nasal things, eh?" Mark jokes. "The round marks that go across are from an entropy sensor."

John remembers a panel on sleep depth monitoring from a recent medical conference he had attended. Entropy monitoring, which is a form of it, seemed to have something to do with facial muscle tone and EEG. John is not an anaesthesiologist, so he'd spent most of that panel trying to solve Sherlock's boredom problem via text message.

Sherlock shifts slightly under the bedding but doesn't open his eyes.

"His throat's going to be sore. There are strawberry-flavoured ice chips in the freezer, just say the word if he needs some," Mark points out.

John decides not to mention that, whatever that so-called strawberry flavour is made out of, it's probably not the real deal, plus Sherlock abhors artificial aromas.

Mark returns to the nurses' station and John takes a seat in the chair again. It feels awkward just sitting there, staring. He glances at the monitors again -  temperature now slightly above normal, fitting with the fact that while surgery has removed the root of the infection, it's still raging. Sherlock's heart rate is slightly elevated, blood pressure in the normal range. The ECG is creating reassuringly regular, normal spikes in the monitor's graph.

There's something slightly pinkish underneath Sherlock's head, obscuring some of his curls. John reaches out to tug at it, and it turns out to be a disposable hairnet. It must've looked rather ridiculous on Sherlock when it had been properly in place. John slithers his fingers under the back of his head and gently pulls it out. He squeezes it into a ball and abandons it on a shelf below the monitor. He then uses his forefinger to rearrange some brunet ringlets that are threatening to tickle Sherlock's eyelids.

Without sparing much thought to what he's doing or why, he reaches under the duvet to grab Sherlock's hand, which he brings to rest on top of the bedding. Something about the way Sherlock had been almost entirely covered by the white duvet had made him uneasy. He'd looked less like someone resting than someone being… hidden from sight at a mortuary. At least his colour is better than it had been before the surgery, and he looks more restful than John ever usually sees him.

Sherlock needs rest right now, but someone John feels antsy, restless, impatient for him to wake up and prove that he's as alright as everyone is claiming he should be. John chides himself for being silly. It's all routine, and he's a bloody army surgeon. An _ex_ -army surgeon, but still.

He pats Sherlock's hand idly with his palm before curling his finger around it again, racking his brain for something else to do. He steals a glance at the nurses' station, and no one is paying the two of them much attention. His presence is probably a relief, especially since he's a doctor – they've probably decided Sherlock can make do with just John watching over him for a while.

Eventually he lets go of the hand and returns to his chair. A few minutes later, his phone suddenly vibrates in his pocket with a text message, and he's suddenly glad he'd had the sense to put it on silent.

It's from Mycroft, politely inquiring how things are progressing.

APPENDIX RUPTURED BUT SURG UNCOMPLICATED. STILL OUT OF IT AT OR UNIT, John replies.

A groan and the rustling of bedding nearby make him nearly drop the phone in his haste to shove it back in his pocket. He stands up, clamping his palm on the side rail of the bed.

Sherlock, eyes still closed, drags a hand up to his nose to tug at the oxygen prongs – John realises they might feel strange and even ticklish. Sherlock's saturation readings have been fine and the oxygen flow has been set to a meagre one litre per minute, so John removes them altogether by pushing them above Sherlock's head.

Eyelids flutter slowly open, revealing a pair of unfocused, slightly bloodshot eyes. Sherlock's hand flops back onto the bedding and he's clearly trying to release his other one from under the duvet, not understanding why he can't bring it up. What sounds like a jumble of consonants escapes his lips.

Then, something seems to connect, his eyes fly open and he sits up quickly.

"Whoa, slow down," John says, laying a palm on his shoulder. The nerve block must be working, since the grimace of pain that had invariably followed every quick movement before the operation doesn't materialise.

Sherlock, frowning, seems to take in the surroundings. "John, what---" he croaks, sounding painfully hoarse. He coughs feebly as if to dislodge something from his throat.

"Everything's fine. You've had an operation, remember?"

Sherlock blinks, looking sceptical. He lifts the edge of the duvet and frowns at his hospital gown. He appears to be looking for something.

"Appendix," John offers.

Sherlock presses his palms on his face, running his fingers over his closed eyelids, and yawns. Suddenly, he grabs the railing, eyes pinching shut. His breathing gets erratic, and he pales visibly. John recognises the familiar signs and promptly grabs an emesis basin from a tray table. Sherlock drops back against the bed, looking pallid and grey.

"Open your eyes and try to focus on something. Might help," John offers. Sherlock does exactly that and shoves aside the basin John is offering.

"Does that have to be so loud?" Sherlock complains with a raspy whisper when the monitor emits a mild warning due to his heart rate having spiked. "It's making me dizzy."

John presses the mute button on the monitor.

The nurse had noticed as well, since he now walks up to the bed. "Everything alright?"

Sherlock glares at him, then reaches out for the basin and manages to bring up a bit of bile. "Headache," he says to no one in particular.

"I'll get you some Toradol and Ivemend." He turns to John. "They gave him some cortisone and granisetron during the surgery already to prevent nausea."

"What's Ivemend?" John asks and places the basin Sherlock shoves into his hands back on the shelf, carefully avoiding looking at its contents, lest he become slightly queasy as well.

Mark grins. "Fanciest anti-nausea thing on the market."

John reasons it must indeed be a new one, since he's not familiar with it.

"Go _get it_ , then," Sherlock commands and turns to his side, facing John. He kicks off the duvet and the warming blanket to the foot of the bed. "Do something about the lights," he tells John, closing his eyes.

"Such as?" The lights in Sherlock's allocated area are already rather dim, and the staff probably can't do their work if the main lights in the recovery hall are dimmed down.

"How do you feel?" John asks, when Sherlock doesn't give him any further light-related instructions. Maybe closing his eyes had been enough.

"Off," Sherlock mutters. He coughs again.

"Try to breathe through your nose if your throat is still bothering you. You were intubated, it'll be sore for a while," John tells him. "It'll be better once you manage to eat something."

Most likely it's going to be Jell-O and yoghurt and the likes today, assuming the nausea abates.

Ingleson returns with two syringes, the contents of which he empties into an IV port. "Once we get the nausea sorted, we can release you to the ward. The Urgent Care duty nurse just called to say they've moved both your things to a twin room at the GI ward."

"Twin room?" John asks without thinking. Only after that it registers that there had been a plural: _'both your things_ '. That means Mycroft has probably had something delivered from home for John as well. It seems that it is assumed that they'll both be spending the night.

It's fine. John hadn't even considered going home until Sherlock could do so as well.

"Unless you'd want a double room?" The nurse asks John without even a whiff of disapproval. "We're not that busy this week, so they could probably swap you."

John lets out an incredulous laugh. " _Double_ rooms in a surgical ward? How does that even work?"

"They're quite popular – it's two adjustable single beds attached together with a railing on one side. Do you want me to ask---" he glances pointedly at Sherlock, and so does John in order to evade Ingleson's knowing gaze.

Sherlock looks quietly amused at the exchange. His complexion is still quite grey.

"No, no, it's -- twin is _fine_ ," John insists, squaring his shoulders.

The worst thing he has slept on so far during cases had been a ratty mattress on the floor in Aberdeen, so this is definitely going to be better than that. During the pneumonia thing he had slept on the couch in the sitting room because Sherlock's fever had spiked and he'd gone a bit delirious and John couldn't possibly trust that he wasn't going to do something idiotic unless John hovered nearby.

"Right," Ingleson replies and then lowers the side rail of the bed. "I need to check your incisions," he tells Sherlock, "they're small, but before you move to the ward I have to see that they're not bleeding."

Sherlock drags himself to a sitting position, wincing slightly and squeezing his eyes closed momentarily. He sways a little, extending out an arm which John grips to steady him. "Not _you_ ," Sherlock mutters at the nurse. "John'll have to do it at home, too, so he may as well start now."

A brief look of irritation at this vote of no confidence flits through Ingleson's features, but then he reaches out to a wall receptacle for a cardboard package of disposable gloves, which he offers to John, who grabs the pair and pats the pillow to command Sherlock to lie back down.

Ingleson brings the head of the bed higher so Sherlock won't be lying flat on his back. "You probably want to see, too, don't you?" he asks Sherlock in a perky tone that receives a scathing glare in reply.

John peels away the bedding on top of Sherlock. Soon, a pair of lithe, pale legs is revealed since the unflattering hospital pyjama has ridden up along his shin. The short-sleeved top is an odd design John has not seen before, but it does make a modicum of sense with many patients having IVs which can be troublesome to manoeuvre with long sleeves. At least it's better than the backless gowns.

Sherlock drags the hem of the shirt up with his fingers, revealing four small bandages – one right at the edge of his navel, one on his left lower abdomen in the so-called anti-McBurney spot, opposite from the appendix area’s bandage, one near his left groin and one in the middle just above his pubic bone.

“What’s this one for? Did the surgeon forget where the appendix is?” Sherlock is looking suspiciously at the one on the left side.

John remembers the surgeon explaining that they usually use three ports.

"They put in an extra port to rinse the peritoneal cavity since it had ruptured," Ingleson explains.

John pulls on the pair of gloves, gently peels away the bandages, revealing neatly stitched wounds that are no more than four centimetres in length. Back in his training days, they always went for the classic open approach, which doesn't exactly produce a big wound, either, but it's naturally more unsightly than this. He switches to a clean pair of gloves passed to him by the nurse from the box again, and gently presses down next to the wounds. There's no bleeding, no discharge, no swelling and Sherlock seems unaffected by what he's doing so likely no significant pain, either. There's a tiny puncture mark next to each of the wounds probably meaning a small shot of local anaesthetic, and a neat row of three marks on each side of the abdomen mark the spots where the surgeon had injected local anaesthetic underneath the muscle layers to block the conduction in the nerves looking after the abdominal wall.

Ingleson passes John a new set of adhesive dressings. He manages to mess one up – the edges stick together when he peels it out of its backing. The nurse passes him another without his smile withering a bit. "That happens a lot," he says. "The upside is that they stay on really well, too."

"Sorry," John says. "You're probably a lot better at this than I am. Do you always work here at the post-surgical obs, or…?"

"Most of the time I'm a scrub nurse, but today we had a couple of cases cancelled and people off sick, so they placed me here. Nice change of pace." He surveys the monitor again and checks a time stamp on the computer. "You've been here an hour already. How's the pain on the scale of one to ten?"

"Two."

John knows Sherlock's pain threshold is impressively high, so for an average person that might mean around four or five. Sherlock might also be lying in order to get out of here. On the other hand, his pulse is calm and he shifts on the bed without grimacing, so two it might actually be. "Anything else that bothers you?"

"Still dizzy?" John offers, remembering what had happened minutes ago.

Sherlock closes his eyes. "A little."

His colour is better, so probably not nauseous anymore. "Probably normal at this stage?" John reasons.

Ingleson nods. "You've been through the wringer. Best just rest tonight, yeah? I'll call the anaesthetist and the ward to get the two of you out of here."

 

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

 

To John, their room at the surgical ward looks a lot more like a hotel suite than a hospital.

After his bed has been parked beside a wall, Sherlock rolls onto his side away from the window and falls asleep. John wanders around the room, texts Mycroft an update, shuffles through the small collection of books and magazines on a small shelf and takes in the rest of his surroundings. There's an astoundingly complicated-looking remote on the table that offers options for climate control, calls a nurse, controls the TV and the home theatre sound system and even adjusts the temperature setting of the shower and the taps. A water urn sits on a dewy cooling plate on a corner table with ice cubes, basil leaves, cucumber bits and fresh strawberries floating in its tank.

John has known that there are private hospitals catering to the rich and the famous and that London was a reasonable assumption to contain some of them, but being in one is quite an experience. One of his army mates has taken on a job in the persona medical team of a Saudi prince, and some of his emails had described a work environment even more lavish than this one. Somehow, the thought had always repelled John. Even though their facilities in Helmand had not even rivalled those of a rural English GP, the British soldiers serving there received royal care compared to the locals, whose hospitals had been decimated by the war. In too many countries, including ones where the capital cities have several foreign-run private hospitals, most of the population don't even have access to safe drinking water of basic maternity care. Even if rich pay out of pocket for these sorts of services, it does nothing to bridge the gap between them and the poor. ' _How does it take away from the poor exactly_?' one of John's medical school classmates, one who wanted to do aesthetic plastic surgery in a private setting probably not unlike the Lyons, had asked John when they'd argued over this very matter. John hadn't had a very good answer, but his stance on this certainly hadn't changed during his stint in Afghanistan where he'd seen, first hand, the devastation of a public healthcare system in tatters, a system that had been bare-bones at best even before the war.

He leafs through a catering menu placed on the table. It's very far removed from the usual, bland NHS fare. John is absolutely fine with a bit of pampering, but in his opinion it has little place in healthcare. Luxurious materials are often not very hygienic, and there's such an undercurrent of unfairness to all of this which he just can't ignore. John wonders how long it would take to get used to such luxury as projected by The Lyons Clinic – at which point would one stop appreciating it or forget how stark a contrast there is between it and how the great majority of the world live?

John's own family had not been well-off. As a youth, he wouldn't have known how to behave in a place such as this. It's obvious that the Holmeses move around quite comfortably among high society, although Sherlock seems to deliberately ignore the associated etiquette. He does not bow down to anyone, which John finds reassuring since he's hardly comfortable in similar situations.

He can't even begin to imagine what all this is costing. Is Mycroft paying for it? It's obvious that someone is, and since Sherlock has been treated here before it's obvious that past bills have been taken care of without incident. John doesn't pry into Sherlock's finances, but he does seem to have an influx of money unrelated to cases. Inheritance? Trust fund? Shady side business? Allowance from loaded brother? Do Sherlock and Mycroft come from a family of means? John laments how little he knows about their background. It's obvious that they've received first-rate schooling, and John is aware that their mother is a prominent mathematician, which means upper middle class at the minimum. Sherlock does behave like the prodigal son of a huge, posh estate, but something tells John that is probably not the entire truth. To him, Mycroft behaves like a man who has had to work for his position and is meticulously trying to maintain it instead of just stepping into it. He's certainly not a peer, although he clearly moves in the highest political circles.

There's an honest-to-god normal bed near the window, onto which John had dropped his phone. Sherlock's hospital bed is near the door, allowing staff to come and go without bothering the person accompanying the patient during the night. There's a spacious en suite with a selection of toiletries and fresh flowers, even a small fridge containing various drinks next to a spacious bathtub.

John wouldn't mind staying in such a room when on holiday, even if he had to sleep in a hospital bed. Wandering to stand by the large windows, he shakes his head with a smile. He'd asked the nurse assigned to the room if all the rooms were like this. She's told him this is the standard twin one, and the _suites_ are at the other end of the ward.

He does wonder if he's allowing himself to rant about this in his head, because it's a convenient distraction. It lets him not think about why he's found himself in this strange role of Sherlock's… _what_ , exactly?

"John?" comes a quiet, hoarse voice from near the door.

John remembers Sherlock's earlier preference for dark and quiet and closes the drapes. He then walks over to Sherlock. "Hey."

"Shouldn't you go home?" Sherlock asks, squinting and blinking as he tries to adjust to the altered light level that still seems to be too bright for his liking.

John gestures around the room. "This is like a bloody holiday. Not going to let it go to waste."

"Where's Mycroft?" Sherlock asks, sitting up and swinging his legs off the side of the bed before John has time to protest. At least he doesn't seem to be planning to hop off the bed onto a pair of likely wobbly legs.

"He's gone home. It's just me now," John smiles sheepishly.

Sherlock suddenly looks embarrassed and averts his eyes. "He should have sent you off. This is not your duty."

"Of course it's not my duty. Lucky for you, duty is not why I'm here."

"Then you might just not have had anything more interesting to do."

"You're an idiot," John says affectionately. _One who would deserve to keep a higher opinion of themselves._ "Besides, when I get sick or injured you're creepily keen to be present."

"That's assuming what you've caught satisfies my scientific curiosity."

John sighs. "Of _course_ I'd stay with you. Being ill and on your own is horrible. Do you want something to eat? I think you're allowed – it's been hours since the surgery."

"I don't feel like it, but you can pick a restaurant."

"Sherlock, we're not going out."

Sherlock grabs the edge of the bed and scoots back to lean the on the railing. He looks a bit unsteady. "Of course not. They have a delivery service here if the offerings of the hospital kitchens don't entice. I might manage some egg drop soup if it's from Tang at the Dorchester."

"This place is bloody ridiculous."

"What else would you expect from something picked by Mycroft?"

"Fair enough. They left you some painkillers," John says, pointing at a small, plastic cup containing tablets on the bedside cabinet, "unless that block is still working."

"It's bearable. I'd like to get up now," Sherlock announces regally.

"Nope. For the loo, you'll need someone to go with you, but apart from that it's back to bed once you've had enough of swinging your legs."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You're worse than Mycroft."

"I'll take that as a compliment." John fetches his phone and starts googling. "Let's get some Chinese, then."

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which fingers dig into pliant things, Mycroft jumps into bed with Margaret Thatcher, and Sherlock concedes to John’s superior anatomic knowledge.

  
The next morning is spent idling in the room, mostly watching television. Sherlock begins complaining of boredom at around noon, which actually puts John in a good mood, since bored translates to a bearable level of pain and nausea.

Sherlock is allowed to leave the confines of his bed, so they head to the indoor palm garden on the roof level. Sherlock is wearing his own pyjamas and his blue dressing gown, as delivered by a minion of Mycroft's early that morning. John had offered to push his IV pole around, but Sherlock seems to want to use it as a makeshift crutch when he gets tired or slightly dizzy. It takes them a good twenty minutes to manage the route up.

Last night, Sherlock had fallen back asleep before their takeaway had arrived. Mycroft had called at around nine in the evening, just as John was scarfing down his portion of General Tso's chicken. He'd sounded somewhat amused to hear that Sherlock had shunned the services of the hospital's kitchens, which were, according to Mycroft, headed by a Michelin-level head chef. "He has always been so particular about his food." That had made John realise Sherlock never agreed to try any restaurant he suggested - the only acceptable ones were picked by Sherlock himself, based on research and past experiences, especially when it came to takeaway. "Was he a fussy eater as a kid?" John had asked.

Mycroft had sighed almost theatrically. "Drove Mummy to the edge of despair. At one point, before he began school, he was suspicious of everything besides potatoes and bananas."

Sherlock still has odd opinions of certain foodstuffs. He'd probably rather jump off a cliff than touch crustaceans in any form other than crab cakes, and he thinks lychees are a satanic abomination rivalling even his culinary archenemy, broccoli.

Half of Sherlock's egg drop soup had actually disappeared by the morning. So had the painkillers delivered in small cups every six hours.

It has now been an hour after his last dose, and to John he looks moderately fine, although he does keep stopping to lean on his IV pole, looking winded.

"Ridiculous," Sherlock  mutters, slumping down to sit on a bench.

"Any major surgery is going to take up your energy for a while."

Sherlock shoots him a disapproving glance and pulls the IV pole closer. It hits the edge of the bench with a clang. "Removing the appendix through a couple of keyholes hardly qualifies as _major_."

"You were headed towards peritonitis. It's not like having the flu – you have to take it easy for at least a week. They said you might be able to go home today, but the IV stays."

"Why do we actually need the home hospital service? You’re a doctor. Administering intravenous antibiotics hardly requires anything else than having you around."

"Someone has to deliver those antibiotics home to us, along with the equipment. I could fetch things from the pharmacy, but making use of what they're offering would make things a lot easier. And, if Mycroft's paying---"

"He's not," Sherlock says.

John is taken aback. "Then who is? _You?_ "

"The way he explained it four years ago is that a member of the Saudi Royal Family, who are the biggest investors in this place – you may have noticed they have an Arabic version of the website available – owe him a sizable favour. He wouldn't divulge the details, but a certain religious minority had attempted a coup five years ago, so it wasn't very difficult to put the pieces together. Coup management is Mycroft's _speciality_. I wouldn't be surprised if he arranged it _and_ brought it to a swift end just as a PR stunt for someone."

"Does he use the hospital himself, then?"

"I have no idea. Strangely enough, where he gets his prostate exams done is not something I dwell on."

John laughs.

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

Their transport home is an armour-plated black car adorned with The Lyons Clinic's insignia waiting at the back entrance which is shielded by a wide roof. The entrance is part of an annex building that carries no hospitals signs, and John realises the purpose of such a setup is probably to mislead paparazzi. Whoever this Moriarty person is, they've been quiet lately, but avoiding advertising Sherlock's convalescence is a good idea anyway.

The driver carries their overnight bags to their flat, and a nurse sent in with them – one with biceps as big as John's thighs – practically carries Sherlock up the stairs by his armpits once it's established that there is no elevator. John shakes his head in amusement, suspecting the nurse probably doubles as a bodyguard whenever necessary.

A small warmer cabinet for IV fluids has been delivered into the flat already, along with everything else they will need for Sherlock's fluids and medications. John goes through a horrifying moment of realising the home hospital staff may have looked in the fridge, until he realises Sherlock had returned the severed hand to Molly already after he'd forgot about the experiment on joint flexibility due to a new case. John fears he might want to continue it at some point, and ask him to double for the now-gone severed limb. John never refuses these things. Why does he never refuse? The last time he'd ended up handcuffed to a radiator, standing in two buckets of water while Sherlock faffed around with three thermometers.

Sherlock refuses to be escorted to the bedroom, so John brings his pillow and duvet to the couch. He seems delighted at being reunited with his laptop, which keeps the ailing detective occupied for most of the evening. It's a testament to how exhausted he must still be, when he announces at ten in the evening that he's heading to bed.

After relocating Sherlock's bedding to where it belongs, John drags his own duvet and a pillow from upstairs to the sofa, prompting a frown from Sherlock.

"I can text if I require you," he tells John. "You could easily sleep in your own room, since it'll be much better for your shoulder."

"I know, but it makes _me_ feel better to be close by," John replies. Something about the statement makes him feel slightly embarrassed, and he doesn't even know why. He's practically insulted by Sherlock's half-dismissal of his idea to sleep downstairs, and he tries to tell himself that he isn't responsible for Sherlock, but is it really so? Does a friendship not mean that there is some sort of a voluntary obligation in place of mutual assistance in trying times?

Would Sherlock – who is usually assumed to be uncaring, unempathetic and selfish – do this for _him_? Somehow, John has no doubt in his mind: yes, he would. No doubt about it at all. Sherlock would, however, do it in a uniquely Sherlockian manner – probably finding opportunities for experiments along the way – but John somehow knows he would give it his best try.

Two weeks ago, they'd had a close call on a case – a suspect had attacked John with a knife. The scuffle had ended with the suspect in cuffs and John with a minor laceration on his arm, but the way Sherlock had behaved that night had been telling. He'd even insisted John get a shock blanket and made damned sure he wore it. When they got home, Sherlock had been riled up, constantly offering tea which he then never actually made, and repeatedly asking him with a downright desperation-tinted voice if he was truly alright. It had taken three cups of John-made tea and a shot of whisky John had needed, too, for Sherlock to calm down at least moderately.

That night, John had believed, once and for all, that in some strange meaning of the word, Sherlock well and truly _cared_ about him, too. It had seemed to catch Sherlock completely off guard that John could get hurt, too.

Sherlock's concern had felt a hell of a lot better and more meaningful than any attention he'd received from women after Afghanistan. Yes, more meaningful than the brief fling he's been having on and off with Sarah.

He welcomes Sherlock's concern. Hell, he wants it. When on dates, he keeps wondering what Sherlock is doing, even half hoping that a text would arrive summoning him back to Baker Street if for nothing else than tea. What does that say about him?

Once Sherlock's bedroom turns quiet and dark after his evening antibiotics, John arranges a pillow on the coffee table, lifts his feet up onto it, and throws his duvet on top. It's a bit like when he was a teen and their mother was away, and he and Harry watched all the films they weren't really allowed while sitting under a quilt in the living room. John briefly visits the idea of Sherlock sitting beside him, sharing the duvet, but something about it feels like it implies a level of intimacy their current domesticity does not allow.

John wonders how long this odd thing of Sherlock needing to rest more than usual will last. _Give it three days_. By then, the surgical incisions would have gotten a good start in healing.

The nerve block must now be long gone. Sherlock has been prescribed anti-inflammatory painkillers and paracetamol, and unbeknownst to him, there are six oxycodone tablets in John's coat pocket, reserved for the possibility of the pain level turning severe again. Sherlock likely has some level of cross-resistance to oxycodone due to his heroin use, but it's at least something to fall back on. It's not a good idea to give a recovering addict any strong opiates, but every patient deserves proper pain relief after having just had surgery. In fact, it lowers the risk for long-term pain problems. John has witnessed many occasions on which active users were not given any extra opiates post-operatively when staff thought that what they were actively using or receiving as upkeep therapy must also take care of the pain. It doesn't work like that – that is merely their base level, the state their brains are used to, so new pain will require additional medication. Sometimes patients with substance abuse issues were even forced to go cold-turkey, when staff failed to understand that forcing people to detox during or after a significant injury was potentially dangerous. Having just been the victim of a car accident, for instance, was really not the time to writhe in the throes of withdrawal. An addict whose pain is being mismanaged will be at a severe risk of relapse due to a need to self-medicate. It gives a whole different meaning to the concept of _danger night._

On the side of a visit to the loo during the early stages of a Samuel L. Jackson film that seems to centre around aviation and reptiles, John pushes the door that has been left ajar to Sherlock’s bedroom a bit more widely open in order to peer in. He can't see much, but he can make out a lot of tossing and turning – the sort that doesn't sound like the cause is being asleep.

Maybe the telly's been too loud. Sherlock seems to be rather sensitive to noise in general.

John steps into the room. "Sherlock?"

"Present. Or did you expect someone else?

"Ha bloody ha. How's it going?"

"If you're referring to sleeping, abysmally. My neck is killing me." Sherlock turns on the lamp on the bedside cabinet. He has piled pillows practically sky-high behind him, so he is obviously trying to sleep sitting up.

"Your neck would probably appreciate you lying down and only having one pillow."

"If I lie down, something starts to gnaw on my scapula."

He sits up properly, shoves the topmost pillow in frustration and then looks at John with his lids half-closed. The low-grade fever he'd had after their visit to the hospital garden had disappeared sometime during the afternoon, but it's obvious he's still exhausted – as is to be expected.

"That's from the laparoscopy."

"I know. They told me. Carbon dioxide stretching the abdominal cavity causing projected pain the shoulder area."

"What's this about your neck, then? The surgery probably wasn't long enough to pinch a nerve there."

"I don't know. You're the doctor." Sherlock rubs his left eyelid with his fingers and John is hit with a pang of pity he tries to shove away as fast as possible. He wants to do _something_ to help. Sherlock wanting to sleep is a thing he's willing to bend over backwards to protect. He decides to embrace Sherlock's last comment to allow a further investigation. He leans his knees on the bed in order to get closer, and slithers the fingers of his left hand into the nape of Sherlock's neck, feeling around for muscle cramps or anything else out of the ordinary. "Turn your head, please."

Sherlock turns it slowly to the right but doesn't repeat the same on the left. "It just won't go."

There's a hard knot where some of the neck muscles intersect with the back of the skull. John digs his thumb in, and Sherlock flinches away and practically yelps.

"It's just a muscle cramp. I could get your something warm for it, maybe borrow that oatmeal cushion of Mrs Hudson's you always make fun of."

"It's not my fault if it looks like a dead badger wrapped in a floral tablecloth. No thank you."

A bath might work, but that's not allowed at the moment. That leaves John with very few options.

_Duty calls, then._ He knows what he must do. This isn't awkward, he decides. At all. It shouldn't be. Women do this to their friends all the time at slumber parties, don't they, at least according to films John's dates have insisted on seeing with him? Or was that in porn?

This wouldn't be awkward, if other people wouldn't keep making certain jokes about him and Sherlock.

John decides that it's their fault, not his or Sherlock's. This notion helps at least enough for John to vocalise what he apparently needs to suggest. "Could you scoot closer to the foot of the bed?"

Sherlock leans forward slightly and turns tensely to look at him.

John raises his hands as if to show he's not going to hurt him. He has gathered that Sherlock doesn’t like to be touched all that much. “If I don’t get that muscle to relax, you’re going to end up with it so tight that your head will be on your shoulder come morning.” 

Whatever Sherlock finds in John's expression doesn't seem to alarm him, so he rearranges himself to sitting in the middle of the bed, knees bent to the right. He seems to have deduced perfectly what John's plan is, since he haphazardly attempts to card away the curls from his neck with his fingers. Of course they bounce right back. He leans slightly forward, squaring his shoulders.

John sits down sideways behind him after removing the tower of pillows. He lays a palm on Sherlock's shoulder, eliciting a flinch.

"Sorry, I---" they stammer in unison.

"It's fine. I should've warned you better," John adds hastily. He runs his fingers gently from Sherlock's humeroscapular joint to where the shoulder joins the neck. The tight tendons underneath milky white, soft skin is, admittedly, a sight he doesn't often get to see at close proximity, without Sherlock being aware that he's looking. He always seems to catch John in the act when he's allowing himself a peek. John is aware he does such things, God save him. It's yet another thing he shouldn't have going on with a flatmate, lest it be misunderstood. Still, he can't escape the fact that he _likes_ looking at Sherlock, likes to survey this delectable landscape, even if it is off-limits and probably inappropriate.  That said, hanging around Sherlock means that John is regularly scrutinised with forensic intensity, so it’s tit for tat, really. John doesn't have the excuse that Sherlock has, the odd innocence and social cluelessness that allow him to behave however he wants. He stares at John plenty, whenever he wants, and encroaches anyone's personal space at his leisure. Once, John was almost certain Sherlock was checking out his----

_Do not go there._

He tries to concentrate on the task at hand, but the sight of the delicate neck in front of him makes John wonder what it would be like to---- _No._ He needs to focus, and Sherlock doesn't think like _that_ about people, which means that John shouldn't, either.

He digs his fingertips into the strap-like splenius capitis muscle on both sides of the neck perhaps a little too enthusiastically, and Sherlock tenses up.

"Tell me if it's too much." John adjusts the pressure a bit.

Sherlock doesn't reply until his Adam's apple has bobbed up and down at least twice, and when he does, his voice has gone slightly husky. "Of course. Not at present, but I will," he corrects gingerly.

John had dated a yoga instructor with a side business in tantric massage during his Sandhurst days. Not that he wants to employ any of the more esoteric techniques associated with that right now, but he tries to remember what she'd done to his neck when he'd been getting cramps from rifle practice.

He continues his ministrations with the pad of his thumb, pressing along the margins of the trapezius muscle. Hooking his fingers along where it attaches to the scapula would require asking Sherlock to take off his pyjama top, which should be fine, but right now, it's a definite _no._

When John runs his fingers along the back margins of Sherlock's sternocleidomastoid muscle, it reminds him of the movement Sherlock does when rosining his bow. There's a shudder underneath his fingers and a sigh, neither which he wants to analyse too carefully right now. He leans back to really put some effort into tackling the knot he'd found on the side of the neck towards which Sherlock had been unable to turn his head.

Sherlock's breath hitches with pain. "That radiates to my mandible. Why?" He sounds slightly concerned.

"They're all connected," John replies and pats his shoulder to give him a bit of a break. "Your headache might also be the result of it. Considering how often you sleep like some contortionist on that old sofa, it's a wonder you don't get cricks more often."

"What about the shoulder pain?"

"It's just a theory, but it might be that the stretching of the abdominal cavity during laparoscopic surgery might cause phrenic nerve irritation which then causes a sort of a referred pain. Where I just pressed down is the start level of the nerves that look after sensation in the shoulder."

"The C4 nerve roots?"

John shakes his head. "Have you actually memorised the whole human dermatome map?"

"Of course. That's the same mechanism as in left arm pain in coronary artery blockages, isn't it?"

John almost jokes that Sherlock would have made a fine diagnostician, but bites his tongue. If Sherlock had somehow got past the practical patient work bits of medical school, in all honesty, he would likely still have only worked in a field with little to no patient contact. He's not deliberately mean, he just…. doesn't know how to manage with people.

John presses down on Sherlock's shoulder again to make him relax, then stretches his head in the opposite direction, eliciting some pops from the neck vertebrae and a groan from Sherlock that somehow travels down John's spine until he's forced to stop his toes from curling. _Focus, goddamnit._

He's not turned on sexually by men, never has been. It's just that some things that are… nice on women are just nice, in general: aesthetic lines of well-defined muscles and soft arse contours and well-defined cheekbones and lush curls are not a gender specific thing. What is more, John can empathise how good it feels for a massage to be working. When his shoulder was recovering, the only kind of therapy that ever seemed to help his mood was massage. It was like his whole body rebelled against his injury, even to the extent of projecting his pain and confusion to parts of his body that were absolutely fine. The limp that the madman currently melting under his fingers had recognised instantly as psychosomatic had been the best example.

Sherlock is not used to this sort of intimacy. That's why he's reacting so… favourably. And John is experiencing satisfaction over being able to help someone. _That has got to be it._

Still, the beginning of a hard-on can't really be explained away with that. John can only hope it goes away on its own. He's not had any sex for a while, so a beautiful pliant body in a bed with him causing him to react is simply logical.

Even if that body belongs to --- _Oh Jesus Christ_.

It all sinks in, and he can't fool himself any longer. This is six degrees of fucked up. Isn't he supposed to be sort-of-Sherlock's-doctor, right now?

Why is this even happening? John is convinced that Sherlock ' _I’m-married-to-my-work'_ Holmes would never seek out such a connection with him. He never voluntarily accepts being touched, and the only time he initiates it is when he needs to make a point for a case.

Or is it? John realises that somehow, Sherlock's dislike of physical contact doesn't seem to apply to him; he doesn't seem to be the least bit awkward about small touches when they happen between the two of them. They are always chaste, always purposeful, but they keep happening, whereas he keeps his distance to everyone else.

Still desperately trying to find a less dangerous motive for doing this, John thinks back to when he'd walked in. Sherlock had looked frustrated, and miserable – wouldn't any good human being want to do something?

If he's questioning his motives to this extent, this must be about him and not Sherlock. He _so_ needs to get laid to shake this dangerous way of thinking. John forces himself to think about Margaret Thatcher and then about Mycroft, finishing off with the two of them together in bed. That seems to help.

"Any particular reason why you've stopped?" Sherlock asks, with slight disapproval.

John hastens to continue his ministrations. He sternly decides to have a long hard think on his motivations later, and to focus on the business at hand for now. He mirrors on the right side of Sherlock's neck what he's just done on the opposite, but the result is different – Sherlock seems to have gone tense and stays that way.

John plants his left palm between Sherlock's shoulder blades and pulls his right shoulder backwards. A delightful crack from somewhere in the thoracic vertebrae echoes in the room, sounding akin to a muffled gunshot. Sherlock lets out a shuddering breath and then coughs.

They desperately need a topic of conversation. The weather? That would only be met with a tirade over how much time and brain cells people waste on something they can't influence. Should John ask about a case? No, because that would simply put Sherlock in a bad mood for having been reminded how he is now side lined by something pedestrian as appendicitis.

John decides that he needs to know something. He’s tired of Mycroft's cryptic evasiveness and having to deal with Sherlock's eccentricities without knowing all the facts. Big Brother Holmes is relatively willing to satisfy his curiosity, but even he seems to leave some things well alone because Sherlock does not like them discussed. Maybe whatever Sherlockianly vague version of gratitude the man is hopefully feeling for all this solicitude from John just might get him to open up about something personal. Or, so John hopes.

"So, this Power of Attorney thing," John starts tentatively.

"I've told you before that you need to work on your sentence formatting. There is no question mark at the end of that."

This is expected: Sherlock leaning on semantics and subterfuge to steer the discussion elsewhere. He hadn't sounded annoyed or dismissive, though. "You don't mind that Mycroft has the power to walk over you like that?"

"The parental unit would have his hide if he used his powers for evil; I think of them as the court of last appeal," Sherlock says without a hint of humour, but since John is leaning slightly to the right as he runs his fingers along the trapezius where it attaches to the scapula, he sees Sherlock's cheek dip into what must be a smirk.

"You don't have to answer, but---"

"I'm perfectly aware I don't _have_ to answer anything, John; I'm not under oath. That doesn't mean I won't. Ask, and stop framing everything with a built-in intellectual escape route."

"I get that people can't always act sensibly when they're ill, but don't you ever feel like the Attorney order is bit of cop-out from having to make the decisions and to sort yourself out?" John wants to bite his tongue – in all likelihood, he may have just gravely insulted Sherlock.

"What you are actually asking is how and why a thirty-two-year-old university graduate with a successful career based on high intelligence would need a _minder_ ," Sherlock snaps but doesn't withdraw from under John's fingers.

John considers arguing, but he can't, not really.

"The definition of a vulnerable adult is rather vague and the threshold for such a classification is low," Sherlock suggests and folds his hands on his lap.

John had only mentioned to Power of Attorney order, not this. Sherlock probably assumes Mycroft has informed him about both. Maybe the strangeness of the situation and the fact that they're not face to face makes Sherlock willing to talk about this now. He doesn't like talking about things he's not good at, or his past, or his family, or…. anything personal, really.

"Yeah, it is. If you get benefits under the Health and Social Care Act or if you've simply got some disability, or if you require assistance in the conduct of your own affairs, you qualify," John confirms. "Mycroft doesn't run your finances, does he?"

"No, he doesn't."

"So, what's---"

Sherlock interrupts him yet again. "Stop beating around the bush. I know you are going to ask the obvious question, I can deduce it in the hesitance in your tone. It doesn’t, however, sound like you are going say something you find unpleasant or insulting. You're simply unsure as to how I will react. I wish you would stop coating your word with disclaimers and empty niceties. It's a waste of everyone's time."

John begins pounding Sherlock's shoulders with the sides of his palms. He's always been rather sceptical if that part of a massage actually does anything worthwhile, but he's not a pro at this and he's running out of ideas, and if he stops now, the talk is over.

"You want me to insult you, is that it?" John teases.

"I'd like to see you try," Sherlock scoffs. "Too many other people – Mycroft included – have beaten you to it. Thankfully, you don't seem to find enjoyment in taking down others.”

John's mouth tightens into a line. Sherlock might put up a nonchalant, steely, invincible front with everyone else, but John knows it doesn't take much to upset Sherlock when it's him in particular doing the upsetting. He's sensitive to being left out of things, that's for sure. Usually he solves the problem by inviting himself and pretending he doesn't even notice the awkwardness. He doesn't even bother to come up with a case-related excuse half of the time. On the rare occasions when John has had a post-case pint with Lestrade, Sherlock keeps texting him about when he can expect John home. Once he actually gets back, Sherlock is naturally not doing anything particular that would actually require his presence.

Maybe Sherlock has had a lifetime of not being invited to things. He seems most jealous not of John's dates – who he seems to treat with deep-seated scepticism as to the longevity of those relationships – but of John's friends.

"Alright, yes, I was wondering why you'd need someone to have Power of Attorney when you get ill."

"If someone told you to get back to the battlefield where you got shot, would you be able to function like a sensible adult?"

"I might, but that doesn't mean it would be easy."

"There's your answer, then."

"Not really," John argues. He can't think of anything else to add to the neck massage, so he starts kneading Sherlock's biceps. They're smaller than his own, but not flabby. All of Sherlock feels wiry like a whippet, sculptured like marble.

He doesn't really understand Sherlock's comparison, though. "What's your battlefield, then?"

"I don't like talking about this," Sherlock grumbles, and John gives him a moment of silence while fighting the urge to run his hands through Sherlock's curls. He'd half done it once when Sherlock had fallen asleep on the sofa. He returns to massaging the insertion points of his neck muscles on the back of his occipital bone again. Sherlock leans slightly into his touch, making him wonder if he likes his scalp run over with fingertips. The whole concept feels a little too intimate for John's taste right now, so he refrains from even asking about it, let alone having a go.

He opens his mouth to assure Sherlock again that he doesn't really need to discuss this any further, that it's none of John's business, really, but Sherlock continues before he can phrase it right.

"I've had unpleasant experiences as a child in the healthcare system. Our parents worked hard to educate staff about certain---" he draws in a breath, as if to take a moment to decide which word to use, "--issues, but in the eighties, many professionals felt that the best way to address those issues with what one could call the school of hard knocks. Those experiences are hard to shake, and the memories resurface at inconvenient times. I find communicating with idiots difficult at the best of times, and when I am in need of medical attention, it gets infinitely worse. It's easier to let Mycroft make sure everything runs smoothly. Most of the time, I _can_ manage," he insists.

"I know you can." John has seen him manage just fine when the problem has been easily fixable and not requiring surgery. When he's not in significant pain, things are usually fine. Maybe that's the key.

"You're thinking hard about something again. It's annoying. Ask, if you must," Sherlock commands. "That's making my fingers tingle, by the way."

John had been massaging the muscle strands right above his brachial plexus. "You're one big knot over here, too. Maybe you should cut back on the violin."

A superior and highly dismissive snort is his reply.         

John decides to test his deduction. "Is pain what determines if you can cope or not?"

"Pain is irrelevant," Sherlock says evasively.

Ha! John is rather certain he's hit the gist of the issue. He can understand that. Maybe not relate to it, but understand. When he's in pain, Sherlock seems to get more easily distracted and annoyed with other people and his surroundings. Sensory hypersensitivity is what Mycroft had called it during one of the rare conversations John had initiated regarding Sherlock's peculiarities. He hadn't wanted to pry, because it should be Sherlock's right to define what is revealed to John and what was not.

"I'm not surprised you're bringing this up," Sherlock says. "And it's not just because you feel uncomfortable in the situation we're currently in and thus want a distraction."

John gapes, glad that Sherlock can't see his face.

"You had been trying to poke a hole on my right splenius cervicis for several minutes before you initiated this conversation. You were obviously distracted by something."

"The splenius cervicis is under the trapezius. I can't get to it directly."

"I stand corrected," comes a slightly sarcastic reply.

"However, if I do _this_ \---" John digs his thumb into that very spot with relish and Sherlock stops breathing for a second. "Sorry. Too much?"

"A bit. My fault for provoking you."

John withdraws his hands briefly, disappointed in himself for forgetting how frugally Sherlock doles out trust when it comes to allowing people close like this.

Sherlock turns his head in both directions, experimenting with range of movement, and while it isn't entirely normal on both sides, it's considerably better – he _can_ now turn his head most of the way. He shifts so that his legs are on the floor, and he can now face John. "I was actually hoping you would broach this subject, because I now have suggestion to make."

"Shoot." John leans on the headboard of the bed.

"I would like to extend the Power of Attorney order to you. Perhaps even relieve Mycroft of it."

John frowns. "Sherlock, I----" his instinctive reaction is that he doesn't want it, that he doesn't think _anyone_ should have it because Sherlock can look after himself, can't he?

Then he thinks again, and realises that the amount of trust that is about to be placed on him feels not like a burden, but like an honour.

He has only known Sherlock for a relatively short period of time, even though he does already feel a closeness he has never before experienced with any of his friends. He has not been present during all those unpleasant occasions Sherlock has just vaguely alluded to, has not been there when these decisions have been for him by Mycroft. That means John hardly has the right to question these decisions. Maybe, one day, the Power of Attorney order can become a thing of the past, but right now, Sherlock is making the choice for himself. Maybe it's the first time in his life that he's had such an opportunity – the chance to place his trust on someone _he_ has chosen, rather than having to always rely on his brother.

John feels doubly embarrassed now, especially over his own conflicted thoughts about Sherlock. Sherlock, who might not even think of anybody in romantic terms, is placing his trust over his health and his life on John, while he's got his mind in the gutter over a shoulder massage.

At least the serious turn the conversation has taken has shaken John's head clear and devoid of confusing things, and he knows what to do.

He circles his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and hugs him briefly and chastely. Sherlock turns to face him, to scrutinise him while blinking and frowning. John has to admit he looks rather adorable when so utterly confused.

"That's a yes, by the way”, John says breathlessly and wants to swallow his tongue when the comparison hits his brain that he's behaving like someone who's just been proposed to. "If that's what you want, then of course."

"I only wish this will not become a regular topic of conversation," Sherlock says, sounding slightly dismayed. "I dared to hope you would say yes, so I have already made my wishes known to Mycroft and he has promised to arrange the requisite paperwork. He has no objections. After all, he’s not always around; too busy running the Government and meddling with things overseas. He probably thinks you're doing him a favour."

John is terribly tempted to ask further questions: why him? Why now? How does Sherlock define the two of them, if he's willing to literally put his health and his life in John's hands? Would he give that same power to Sherlock if need be – would he trust the man to respect the essence of him, to fulfil his wishes, to make the right decision?

Yes, he would.

John would, because he sees more than just heads in the fridge, a creepy fascination with murder, the lack of social graces, the tendency to be a know-it-all, and whatever neuropsychiatric diagnosis hides behind words such as 'sensitivity', 'difficulty' and 'issues'. He sees _Sherlock_ , and the trust the man awards him willingly and without hesitation. He wouldn't believe for a second that Sherlock wouldn't use his logic and his obvious attachment to John to make the best possible decisions.

John will never forget Sherlock's almost timid confusion over John's reaction to meeting him and learning what he was like – he had seemed utterly confounded by the fact that someone enjoyed his company even when he wasn't putting on his best behaviour. John had been terribly lonely when he met Sherlock. How lonely had Sherlock been?

John drags his foot onto the bed and grabs the ankle with his hands. Sherlock bends his head back and stretches his arms above his head. He flinches and drops them mid-movement and John realises it's probably time for his meds – there is no allocated night dose, but since he's up and it's been six hours, he might as well offer. "Do you need another paracetamol?"

"No, it was just the sudden movement."

"Do you think you can sleep now?"

"I can try."

John stands up and Sherlock grabs two pillows and shoves them to the head of the bed. He drops onto the mattress and drags a duvet up to his shoulder. He does not thank John for the favour. That's not how things work around here.

Between them, not everything needs to be said out loud. They _know_ , anyway.

  
  
 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock spoils the ending because that's what bratty consulting detectives do.

  
  
Somehow, John manages to keep Sherlock off the streets of London for a whole week. He does manage to solve cases by telecommuting, mummified into a duvet on the sofa while fervently tapping away on his laptop, occasionally shouting at the screen when the general idiocy of the world's population boils his temper over.

John delivers tea, antibiotics and the occasional prompt to sleep or eat. Gradually, life returns to normal.

Well, as normal as it ever gets at the Holmes-Watson household. That's what John calls it in his head sometimes. Not out loud to people. Never.

  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

  
Mycroft tries to insist on a follow-up visit to the hospital, which Sherlock declines, his argument based on the notion that he lives with a perfectly adequate physician, who will take note if he attempts to drop dead from a complication. He makes this point on the phone while standing in the sitting room, glancing at John pointedly.

John raises his brows but stifles a smile. He's perfectly aware how big a compliment this is, coming from Sherlock, but he hardly wants to reward the man for normal human decency. Lord knows what he'd do if he got the notion in his head that it could be used to wring favours out of John, or make him less angry about heads in the fridge.

Because it… would.

He does care about what Sherlock thinks of him. A man who holds himself to such high intellectual standards is bound to look down on anyone and everyone, and on the rare occasions when John manages not to disappoint him, well, that is certainly a valid cause for celebration.

They're flatmates. Of course he'd want Sherlock to not think of him as an idiot. And to like him.

John is half convinced something has changed. Sherlock pays even more attention to him now than he used to, and he's caught Sherlock watching him carefully, eyes narrowed as though he's trying to solve a mystery. John thinks it must have something to do with what the trip to the hospital and the consecutive events had revealed. He could be wrong, but he has the distinct feeling that Sherlock is now trying to be nicer to him. Is it guilt? Embarrassment? Does Sherlock even do those?

Could it be that he thinks there's a debt to be paid? Or, is there a fear that John will reveal to someone else the things he has learned? Sherlock had been upset once when John had written some funny but unflattering things about him on the blog. He does care, after all, but does he care more about what people think of him, or what John does?

A few times, John has allowed himself to wonder if Sherlock's changed behaviour might have something to do with… _nevermind_.

  
-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

  
A week after 'the incident', as Mycroft calls the appendicitis, as though it's an international conflict to be swept under a carpet, John is halfway through his copy of Colin Dexter's _The Dead of Jericho._ Despite having been largely bored for several days, Sherlock hasn't snatched the book from his fingers yet. He tends to do that in order to check the conclusion, then scoffing at what he sees as an abysmal lack of intelligence in the level of storytelling.

Sherlock wanders into the sitting room, wearing trousers and a shirt instead of the ratty pyjamas and a dressing gown that have been his staple lately. John had stolen them and stuck them in the wash while Sherlock had been in the shower yesterday. This had not gone down well. If it were up to Sherlock, the rubbish and the dishes and the washing would just keep piling up indefinitely, waiting for someone magically to take care of them. Mrs Hudson would, of course, but John doesn't want to stoop to a that hopeless a level of bachelorhood.

John pretends not to notice Sherlock watching him, because the nervous energy emanating from the man invariably means that John won't get to finish this chapter if he engages.

Sherlock calls out his name.

John lets out a noncommittal grunt.

"Could I trouble you for a second?"

_Who are you and what have you done to Sherlock?_

John sticks up a forefinger, finishes reading the last paragraph, rather disappointed at the chapter ending, and shifts his attention to Sherlock.

He's holding a pair of cuticle scissors, tweezers and a lighter. This can lead to nothing good. He's also standing like he doesn't exactly have a plan on what to do next. John is convinced he's about to ask a favour he's convinced John won't easily agree to.

"I require assistance," Sherlock points out, but it isn't with his usual commanding tone.

John gets up, which is clearly understood as consent, so Sherlock heads to the kitchen and John trails behind. He tugs his shirt from underneath his trouser collar and lifts it, revealing a pale expanse of almost concave stomach. He no longer needs patches on his laparoscopy wounds, since they have begun to turn into scars. They had been stitched up with self-absorbable thread intracutaneously, meaning that the stitching wasn't even visible from the surface. No need to remove stitches.

So, why is Sherlock holding a set of things could be used for exactly that?

"The higher port wound on the left has the end of the thread sticking through the skin. Hence, it won't get absorbed and the wound won't close."

"Right," John says. He has seen Sherlock removing his own stitches in the poor light of the bathroom, standing in contortionist positions and slamming the door in John's face even when it was obvious that someone else doing it would make the process much easier. This wound is in a visible place, one he could see probably just by looking down.

John almost asks why Sherlock is asking this of him when it doesn't seem all that necessary, but something stalls his tongue. Something like an unspoken agreement he has just remembered.

Sherlock sits on the table and passes him the tweezers and the lighter. John heats the tips to sterilise them. It's likely that the other end of the thread has melted away already, and it's just a matter of gently tugging the length of thread through. He grabs a chair, sits down and starts looking for it. The thread is thin and light, and hard to see. A flashlight would have been handy.

Sherlock isn't looking at him; instead, he seems to be inspecting the wallpaper. "You like looking after others, though your empathy is not universal. Sometimes, that appears to be in contrast to the absolution of the Hippocratic Oath."

"What's that supposed to mean?" John finds the offending strand, but it's hard to grab hold of it with the slightly twisted ends of the tweezers – Lord knows what Sherlock has been doing with them.

"If criminals get injured in the course of pursuit or apprehension, you don't seem to extend your doctorly sympathy to them."

"I have bad days. Sometimes those criminals practically cause their own injuries by going after you."

"Providing medical care gives you a sense of purpose you'd thought you'd lost. You're also highly protective… Of _some_ people."

John tugs off the bit of thread and shows it to Sherlock, who nods and lets his shirt fall. He doesn't tuck it back in, nor does he hop off the table. John remains in his chair.

The edge of Sherlock's mouth quirks up in that know-it-all way he makes a habit of. "You like me deducing you, but only up to a point." This sounds like a tangent.

"I haven't spotted a point yet to this conversation," John says carefully, wondering what Sherlock is playing at and how little he's going to like it.

"You did not mind expending your time and effort on me during the appendicitis."

John blinks. Whatever terrifying reveal ripped straight out of his subconscious he had been fearing, this isn't it. "Of course I didn't mind. Why would I?"

Sherlock purses his lips. For a moment John thinks he's nervous, judging by the way he has curled his fingers around the edge of the table. "I am aware you have gone beyond the usual male parameters of flatmateship in this respect."

"I think flatmateship is a bit of an underestimation. And I’m not sure that there is an official rulebook published on that. Where's this coming from? I don't need the whole thing dissected, and you shouldn't feel embarrassed about it. About needing a bit of help when you're ill, I mean."

"I'm not embarrassed, all in all," Sherlock says in an oddly tentative tone. "The experience was not… unpleasant. For that, I have you to thank for."

John opens his mouth to protest that judging by the level of pain he'd been in, _unpleasant_ is an understatement, but, luckily, he realises that's hardly the point. Maybe Sherlock is right and he _is_ a little slow on the deductions front. During all his time with Sherlock, he can’t remember when he’d actually thanked anyone for anything.

John feels like he's standing on a minefield. What the hell does this all mean?

Sherlock thinks he's doing him a favour by allowing him to participate in this very minor task. Sherlock admits to liking it when John looks after him.

Is this strange?

Or, is that a question only a stupid person would keep repeating when it comes to sharing a life with Sherlock bloody Holmes?

It's probably best to take it at face value. Whatever hidden meaning John might want to pin on this, the strange creature sitting on the kitchen table might not think in a similar vein _at all_.

In the end, John says nothing but pats Sherlock's bicep stiffly. Either thigh would have been at a handier height, but that would have somehow felt inappropriate. _That's still a can of worms for_ _another time._ "It's fine, all fine, really, convenient I mean that you don't… mind. Convenient for you, I mean."

Sherlock is looking like he expects something else, something more, something a bit more eloquently explained. He also looks a little anxious, and won't make eye contact with John. 

Sherlock doesn't have a lot of people in his life, except for his brother. There is no girlfriend… boyfriend? Whatever. Probably hasn't been, for a long time, if John's intuition is right. Not a lot of people who would do this sort of thing for him. He's not thanking John for being a doctor, that's for certain. What he _is_ being thanked for, exactly, on a surface level is for being a friend, but why are they both acting as though there's something deeply unsettling about that? Something they can't quite put their finger on?

Better not go there. It is, however, nice that Sherlock would at least _try_ to express this… _thing_?

"I'm glad you told me," John says and then wants to rip out his tongue for sounding so idiotically vague. He should donate it to Sherlock for an experiment. He'd done quite well before, but now he's made everything sound like Sherlock has made some severe, relationship-altering confession like coming out of the… _nevermind_. He hasn't. He _hasn't_. Somehow, it feels like there wasn't anything there that John hadn't already realised to some extent.

John braces himself for the lecture on sentiment being stupid – perhaps something on the lines of how it’s merely a matter of logic and convenience to have a doctor on board as someone to counter the not inconsiderable weight of his brother.  He expects Sherlock to now retreat, and frankly it would be a relief if they both pretended this conversation never happened.

Sherlock slides off the table, makes his way to the sitting room and makes a grandiose landing on the sofa. And says nothing at all. Maybe that's for the best.

Yet, the silence speaks volumes, and John realises that it is in what has not been said that something very significant has just happened.

Neither of them know exactly what this… _thing_ between them is, but Sherlock has now made it clear that they're both perfectly aware of its existence. Neither of them seem ready to explore it further, but somehow it makes John excited and giddy that it's apparently allowed, even welcomed to exist.

John stops by the coffee table en route to his chair, which is where he'd left his novel.

Sherlock gives it an unimpressed glance. "The brothers swapping names so that the police would get the wrong person's fingertips is, admittedly, clever, but the prose is still asinine," he announces.

John's hand stops in mid-air. "The brothers swapping----?" Realisation dawns: he's only halfway through, and he now already knows who had killed George Jackson and Anne Staverly. "Oh, you bloody bastard-----" he starts, but the grin he can't control probably dilutes the effect of his anger.

Sherlock pretends he has no idea what John is chiding him for.

John is still smiling when he takes over his usual armchair again. Like Sherlock's very personality, the relationships the man forms with people defy easy explanations, and he's more than happy to just go along with it. He's the one still looking for explanations and labels and classifications. Maybe, one day, he can move past all that.

Meanwhile, with Sherlock, he'll never be bored, and for the both of them, loneliness is a thing of the past.

  
_**– The End –** _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reception this story has received has been overwhelmingly and wonderfully positive. I love this fandom, never change.


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